Chapter twenty-seven

I drove back to Yardley’s cottage. It wasn’t easy. My vision was blurred. My mind was foggy. My stomach rolled. I had to stop the car three times. Three times I pulled over and fell out the door to vomit in the dust by the roadside. The last time it was the smell of the vomit itself that made me sick. My face was swelling. My head hurt. My mouth bled.

When I finally coasted down the dirt road into the valley, I knew I was losing it. I parked next to the Chevy. I stumbled out, dropping to my knees, dragging myself to my feet by the car handle. I stumbled toward the door. It was open. I went in. With every step I felt like I was going down. Then I took another step. I crossed the kitchen. I tried to call out: “Susannah.” The effort made me ill.

Another step brought me to the threshold of the living room. I leaned against the jamb.

They were standing close together in the center of the room. The afternoon light spilled, misty, through the window, fell in a pool around them. The rest of the room hung back in the shadows as if it had withdrawn discreetly from the scene. They were facing each other, and his hand was on her shoulder. He was staring down at her, dazed and ravenous, like he’d die if he didn’t kiss her soon. Her eyes were filled with tears and very blue and she had to make up her mind in a moment. She had to decide whether to tilt her chin up imperceptibly and make the offer or turn away and let it die in the talk that followed.

I saved her the trouble by peeling off the threshold and taking the long, long journey into the dark.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed when I came to. She was changing the ice in a compress with new cubes from a basin beside her. She turned to look at me. She looked sad at first. Then she saw my eyes were open. She smiled.

“What’s the other guy look like?” she asked.

“Big,” I told her. “Big and muscular.”

Her smile widened, skewing her face. “He really gave you a working over.”

“He hit me once.”

“Wo.”

I shut my eyes. My whole head hurt and my whole body seemed to be inside my head.

Susannah lay the compress against the bruise, held it there.

“It’s all right,” she whispered.

I wanted to open my eyes fast to catch the look that went with the sound of her voice. I couldn’t manage it.

I said: “Susannah, Susannah.”

“Ssh.”

I finally looked, but she was expressionless by then.

“I asked him where he was on the night our parents died,” I said.

“Oh please be quiet, Michael,” she whispered with a breath. “Be quiet and lie still.”

I reached up and took her wrist. I pried her hand and the compress away. She closed her eyes as if she were in pain.

“They were your parents too,” I said.

She shook her head at me. Her gaze was gentle. “They weren’t,” she said. “I’m sorry. I never knew them. I had a family of my own that raised me and I loved them and I’m sorry you didn’t, Michael, believe me, I’m so sorry for you, but I just … I just want to be all right again.”

I let her go. My hand fell to my side. I rolled my head to evade her goddamned kindness.

“I hope you find out what happened,” I heard her say. “I hope you do. I know you will. I know that Nathan Jersey won’t die because you will. But I don’t care about the rest. I don’t care … Michael … brother … I just want to be all right again. Everything has been so awful ever since …”

“Ever since you met me,” I said.

“Ever since you told that story. Even before that. The nightmares. I’m glad it’s out now. I’m glad I know what it is. Maybe I never would have if I hadn’t met you. And if it would bring our parents back to life, I’d want to know more, I’d want to know everything. Like you do. But I think it would be fine with them … I really think it would be fine with them if I were just … all right again. I really do.”

I started to speak. I thought better of it. I took a breath instead. She stood up.

“Listen,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“I think you should eat. Do you think you can eat?”

“Oh, jeez. No.”

“I’ll get you something.”

“Thanks.”

She moved to the doorway.

“Are you sorry?” I asked her.

“Never,” she said.