I WASN’T MYSELF, BUT THE IMAGE OF ME
IT’S LATER NOW—MUCH, MUCH LATER.
I was in the shower one evening before Lena’s bedtime, just after Kay’s death. One of the two rooms we were renting off the lobby—the room that used to be Burke and Gabe’s—had a shower curtain in its small bathroom that Lena had pointed out right away. Where our old curtain had borne a pattern of blue flowers, this one had golden sheaves of wheat repeating on a background of creamy white.
I remember noticing, as I stood there letting the water drum down onto my shoulders, the cleanness and freshness of this new shower curtain with its sheaves of wheat. I noticed the sparkling-white quality of the small tiles on the shower walls, how they contrasted with the worn and grimy tiles of our previous motel-room shower stall, frankly a sorry bathroom feature. We were living the high life now, I recall saying to myself.
I washed my hair with plenty of shampoo. I saw no need to rush, since Lena was safe in the room next door with Will, reading to him from her bedtime books. I’d just rinsed out the lather and was looking around for my razor—had I left it on the sink counter?—when I felt a scratch at my ankle and glanced down to see a thin trickle of blood. What had cut me? I must have rubbed my other foot across the ankle—my big toe, on the other foot, had a freakishly long toenail.
Unattractive. I didn’t like it. How had it gotten so long without me noticing? I felt embarrassed, despite being alone. I’d clip it right now, as soon as I shaved my legs and stepped out and toweled off.
But wait, the other toenails were long too—they all were, on both feet. They were almost obscene; they looked like a bird’s talons, like bird claws stuck onto a mammal. How could Will not have noticed, either? Maybe he’d been too polite to say anything. The front edges of the nails had to be nearly a centimeter long. Beyond disgusting.
I’ll get out right away and grab the clippers from the bag next to the sink, I thought. It was both strange and vile: my toenails had never been so long in my life. Must be because it’s winter, I told myself, you wear thick socks all the time, even to bed usually, hating to have cold feet—that must be how you missed it. I was about to turn off the water when I caught sight of my ankles, my calves. The hairs on them were as long as the toenails, practically. Jesus, I thought. How could that have happened?
My gaze hit the wall tiles. I’d thought they were so clean, but now I saw some of the caulked cracks between them contained lines of mildew. I’d get the maids in here first thing tomorrow, I’d get down on my own hands and knees . . . wait. My fingernails were almost as long as the toes. Hard to believe I hadn’t cut up my scalp with them while I was lathering. My gaze flicked back to the wall tiles and I saw a line of mildew was creeping up the grout.
It was visibly extending itself before my eyes, indeed all over the white surface of miniature tiles on the shower wall mildew was creeping along the lines of caulking. In a grid of right angles a black mold was spiking out farther and farther along the network of tiles, straight angles in every direction.
“What is this,” I said, “what is this,” and tore the curtain back without even turning the water off. Wait—the water had flooded, the floor was soaked, and everything was damp. A lightbulb flickered above the vanity. In passing I noticed the tub was full, backed up, the water a sludgy gray, and a rim of scum ran around the tub over the waterline. I panicked, throwing a towel around my middle, tying it over my chest—it too smelled stale, possibly moldy. I pulled the door open and ran out into the room: there were Will and Lena reading on the bed, pillows propped behind them, with a picture book open across their laps.
Relief: she was there. She was safe.
But all around us the room seemed to be changing, though I couldn’t put my finger on it at first.
“Goodnight, little house. Goodnight, mouse,” read Lena. Her voice was muffled.
“Goodnight, comb. Goodnight, brush,” read Will. His voice, too, sounded like it was coming through a barrier.
They looked relaxed, as I’d left them, but around the bed they lay on other features shifted and altered. The desk lamp turned off and on rapidly, at irregular intervals; dust piled on surfaces and then seemed to go away, as though either blown or wiped; an object vanished and reappeared somewhere else, a toy on the round table, a glass. They didn’t take notice. Through a chink in the drapes I saw flashes of light outside. But it was night, and there shouldn’t have been light on that ocean side—so I ran past the foot of the bed to pull the drapes open where the big picture window looked over the cliffs and sea.
And I saw it was day. But then it was night, again, night in the sky and rapidly back to day. Boats appeared on the surface of the water, both far and nearer, then disappeared in an eye-blink, only to reappear elsewhere; the sky switched from morning to midday to evening to night within the space of seconds, and then did it again—this time with different cloud formations, other ships.
“Will, Will! What’s happening?” I shrieked, turning to look at him and Lena where they sat with their backs against the headboard, their legs stretched out on the bedspread.
But they seemed to be walled off. When I leaned over the bed to reach out to them something in the air resisted me. I couldn’t punch through the space around them, though I tried, increasingly desperate. Lena and Will looked the same as ever but I could see my hair growing in front of my eyes, my hair was getting longer and longer on my shoulders, inch by inch it moved down the front of my shirt, my hairs were visibly lengthening.
My little girl was looking calmly at her picture book, touching the drawings. She looked so normal, just here, just the way she should be. But I—I looked up at myself in the mirror. There was an ominous element to the growth of my hair, the choppy, almost digital-looking growth of the ends, so fast it was visible to the naked eye. There was something badly wrong. I wasn’t myself, but the image of me.
Lena’s fingernails were normal where they lay on the bottom edge of the pages of her book, bitten off a bit but normal: Goodnight, nobody, said the text on the page.
Beneath my own lengthening fingernails a line of dirt crept, growing along with the keratin.
I’d seen this somewhere, I thought, seen this somewhere before.
“OK,” I said, and made myself take deep breaths, count slowly. One of the hypnotic visions or a vivid nightmare—in any case nothing physically real, that was clear from the nails, from the hair—impossibility. I had to figure out the rules of the nightmare; possibly I could control it and wake myself up. I turned my back on Will and Lena and walked to the window again, where birds appeared on the cliff edge and then flicked away. The grass was greener, yes, the ice melted and springtime was here, even the color of the ocean changed from gray to a bluer hue, even the color of the sky.
I heard a voice in the other bedroom and went back through the interior door, reluctant to let Lena and Will out of my sight but pulled there somehow—still, all this was an effect, wasn’t it? An effect, I remember telling myself as the light kept changing up around me, lights shifted and went from dark to dim to bright. It was disorienting. But part of me also worried that I’d been drugged again and this would turn out to be another kidnapping, so I made sure the chain was on the room door. Dream or not, lock the door, I said as I went. Dream or not, lock the door.
The voice was coming from my laptop, open on the bed where I’d left it during my shower. I came up beside it and I could see the screen: Ned’s face. It was a video call, his head in a window on the screen—talking to someone else as I came up, his face in profile, but he turned and looked at me.
“A little fast-forwarding,” he said.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I hit the fast-forward button,” he repeated. “Didn’t you see? The kid. Your boy in there. They’re not going so fast, are they? You’re all alone.”
They were at regular speed, I realized. But I was sped up.
“You’re growing old,” said Ned, and smiled again. “See?”
I looked down: new wrinkles on my hands. Old hands. Somehow I’d moved through time alone—and yet still I spoke at normal speed, or else I couldn’t have talked to Ned; I still thought normally. Didn’t I?
“It’s impossible,” I said, more to myself than him. “It’s just a bad dream.”
“That’s what you do with losers, right? Isolate them. You’re one of the losers, wifey.”
“But how—why are you doing this? I was cooperating, Ned. I did what you asked, didn’t I? I don’t get it.”
“I’ve got the primaries in a few weeks and I need my pretty wife where I want her. A mental case, alone and needy. Makes them do what they’re told. Obedient. And a nice little bereavement in the family. Sympathy vote’s the icing on the cake. I look good in black. Well. I look good in everything.”
“A bereavement?”
“I took your time from you. You’ve missed a whole lot. Just take a look.”
Outside the picture window the sun was bright. Gnats and flies hung in the air. There were bunches of grass near the edge of the cliff and they were full green, bowing and dancing in the breeze.
“Ain’t we got fun?” said Ned.
Doris Day was singing it in the background. Not much money, oh but honey, ain’t we got fun . . . There’s nothing surer: the rich get rich and the poor get children . . .
I had a cold feeling. I was brittle as bone.
Had he made me a ghost?
I’d disappeared—I’d gone, slipped out of being like water down a drain. Was my girl alone now? Was Will looking after her?
“Like I said, we’re going out today,” he said. “We have a public appearance. Believe me, darlin’, it’s easier if you don’t fight it. Don’t get yourself all bothered. You won’t get anywhere, I promise. You’re confused, sure. You’re a sick woman. You’re weak. But it won’t be forever. You don’t have to go on that much longer like this. Just do what I say. OK? Put on the gown.”
I looked behind me and saw a black dress laid out on the second bed.
“I’ll see you outside,” he said. “Be on your good behavior, now. You see what I can do.”
His face went gray and for some reason I reached out and touched the screen softly. But it wasn’t warm, and fine dust came off on my fingertips. The laptop wasn’t even on. I raised my face: Lena and Will were standing in the doorway. Will wore a suit and Lena’s eyes were puffy.
We weren’t in the motel at all but in my parents’ house; I stood in my old bedroom. There was a rush of confusion that was almost a thrill, almost velocity. Then it stilled. Here was my corkboard with its colored pushpins and ribbons. PARTICIPANT. The air was humid and close; my parents had never had central air. I heard my father’s voice: they never “held with it.” I was wearing the black dress now, I saw, glancing down—no memory of changing into it—and toe-pinching black shoes with heels so high I could barely walk on them. I’d never have picked out those shoes.
I wouldn’t struggle. Don’t fight it, Ned had said sleazily. But it did hurt more if you struggled.
Prey animals had the sense to play dead.
So I leaned down and picked Lena up, though her weight made me stagger on the too-thin heels. But she was real and solid. I knew from her red eyes that she’d been crying and I squeezed her hard, maybe too urgently. Had all of us been frozen there? Had we all been suspended on Ned’s whim, or only me? I tried to see if Lena looked older . . . I was flailing. It was possible, faintly possible that her face was more angular suddenly, but whatever slight change I might imagine wasn’t obvious like my long talons. I tried to keep them from scraping her back as I held her; I’d rip them off. They were like parasites on me.
“Mommy, I’m hot,” complained Lena.
I put her down and as I turned away bit at the longest nail, ripped the white edge of a thumbnail off with my teeth. But then—they weren’t long anymore.
And the hairs on my legs? I leaned down to look beneath my tights. They were black tights, semi-sheer, and I could see no hairs through them. The skin on my calves was smooth. I straightened up again and was holding out my hands, looking at them dazedly, when Ned appeared behind Lena in the hall. He wore a black suit, true to his word, and a silver-gray tie, and looked like he’d stepped off the pages of a magazine.
“My father,” I said, and it hit me whose death this was—I wasn’t the ghost after all.
It had happened without me. He was all gone, and I’d missed him. I’d been absent. There was a picture in one of my mother’s photo albums: my father as a tiny boy in a white suit, sitting on the back of a horse. Or maybe it was a donkey. It was a blurry, black-and-white picture.
That little boy, I thought.
How would my mother ever forgive me for missing it? How would my brother?
Had my father lain in bed, had he grown thinner, the way the dying do? He might not have missed me. I hoped he hadn’t but I would never know.
“You were always a daddy’s girl,” said Ned.
“You were a rotten son-in-law,” I said, as though it was news.
He kept smiling, as always. His smile never wavered now. It was a rictus.
“You took his money and you even took his dying,” I said.
“Mommy?” said Lena. It was as though she hadn’t heard me; I was glad and ashamed, ashamed for speaking that way in front of her. “Can we go now? Nana says they’re going to play a pretty song for Grumbo at the funeral. She said they’re going to play ‘The Skye Boat Song.’”
“Take my arm, kiddo,” said Ned, bowing his head in Lena’s direction.
She clung to Will for a second, she would much rather have walked with Will, it was awkwardly obvious, but finally she lifted her hand up to Ned’s.
I walked right behind them, fearfully close; as I stepped into place at their heels, I clutched Will’s arm for a moment where she’d let go of it.
“Let go of that thing right this fucking second,” said Ned through gritted teeth. But he was facing away from us. As though he had eyes in the back of his head. “You’re my wife. You remember it.”
“How did you know how sick my father was?” I asked weakly. “How did you know before we did?”
“Whatever you need to know, I’ll fucking tell you,” ground out Ned. Then he turned and whispered over his shoulder, almost tenderly, “Bitch.”
My stomach flipped but Lena was looking elsewhere and waving at someone: she hadn’t heard the tone or the words. Again she seemed to be immune. She was usually so observant—it was as though Ned had a wand.
We stepped out onto the front porch, where I saw my parents’ grass was yellow and dry. There were flags flapping from porches down the street: it was Independence Day. Out past the awning, where the shade stopped, reigned a bright blank July heat, cicadas whining in the trees. A small group of photographers stood on the lawn. Had Ned hired them? Would a real news outlet spend money on pictures of a candidate’s in-law’s funeral?
Ned wore a solemn expression, making the occasion momentous—such was the power of his bearing—and curved a graceful arm around me in a supportive gesture. He was between Lena and me, seeming to shelter us both, there on the porch: the father of the family, presiding over a sad wife and innocent little girl.
Will had fallen behind somewhere—that he had even been allowed to come was surprising. Ned couldn’t have liked it; maybe my mother had pushed. There were limousines at the curb, and my mother was getting into the first. We joined her there, Ned and Lena and I (I looked back and saw Will headed across the dry grass for limo number two). My mother slid in beside Solly and Luisa, already seated.
In the cool car with the air-conditioning blowing into our faces Lena sat between Ned and me and sang in a high little voice.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that’s born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.
Across from us my mother wore an expression both peaceful and relieved, maybe. Alone now, without my father, but probably also relieved. She avoided looking at Ned as though there was a blank space where he sat.
Lena, who only knew the chorus, sang it again.
I tried to discern from my mother’s face, then from Solly’s whether they were angry at me for being trapped by Ned this whole time as my father was dying.
But Solly wasn’t looking at me at all: he was looking at Ned with open contempt, with raw hostility. Luisa nestled into his side, her eyes cast down. Miserable, I thought, and polite. My mother patted Luisa’s knee and they smiled at each other sympathetically.
I turned my head toward Ned, slowly and slightly so that he wouldn’t notice. He’d dropped his falsely protective arm off me when we got into the limo and also dropped Lena’s hand; now he was looking down at his phone, as usual.
There was his neck, its even tan, the sweep of one lock of hair over his forehead, his perfectly clean ear. There was the faint scent of his cologne. I kept looking, I kept gazing at the graceful tendon of his neck, the clean shave along his jawline. And just when I was about to turn away—feeling my eyeballs throb dully from being rolled to one side too long—I saw a movement on the skin. Just for a second, just for an instant, I saw an L-shape made up of pink-and-white squares flash onto the skin before they disappeared.
I swear I saw him pixelate.
I didn’t say anything, my tongue was stuck in my throat, but as we got out of the car I found myself scrabbling at his sleeve. Lena was walking ahead holding my mother’s hand; I had Solly’s and Luisa’s backs in front of me. We were on display again as we stepped onto the cemetery’s gravel footpath—I didn’t see the photographers yet but there were mourners around us, others were parking and walking over to the gravesite—and so, again in the open air, Ned turned to me smiling. The smile was perfect, too: restrained, as though in grief, and yet compassionate.
“How are you doing it?” I asked, a bit pathetic. “What are you doing?”
“I’m playing with you, honey, that’s all,” he said softly, and tapped one temple. “You let me in when you started ‘clearing your mind.’ That New Age horseshit is good for one thing: access. Safer when you had the therapist in the room, but then you started to do it all by your lonesome, didn’t you. With the little earbuds in, all walled off from other people and with your mind wide open.”
“The hypnosis tapes?” I squeaked.
“You threw open the doors and I walked in. So now I’m tinkering. I’m just tinkering around a bit with the little wife’s thalamic nerve projections. I can do that now. I can make you see what I want you to see.”
He’d effected some kind of amnesia. If not a dream he’d given me, it wasn’t far from it, I guess, a thought, an idea, a mental frame. Drugs, maybe? Could this be pharmacological, and his mind-control brags just a component of his intricate manipulation?
“But I don’t know what you mean,” I said. “How can you—
anyone—?”
“I have the skills,” he said. “Ever since I took the kid. Added bonus. You just take what you want. You know that, sweet thing? The more you take, the more you get. It just starts to pour in. Talk about miracles.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “I don’t . . .”
“The same way money gives you everything, so does power. It’s like one of them math curves, rising steeper and steeper. That’s how power grows once you grab it. How’d you get through thirty-some years without even knowing that much? Stupid. I can make things happen without even being there. I kept you on your toes. The subway, right? The freeway. And the house. It’s nice for me, watching.”
“But not—that isn’t possible.”
“Not only possible. Easy. With neurons so much is easy. Didn’t your little Hearing Voices club tell you that? Haven’t you learned anything?”
“So you’re saying you can get into my—”
“I have the keys to the kingdom.”
“What kingdom?”
“I can slide my fingers,” and he leaned over and whispered close, “right into the holes in your head.”
His breath was moist and stale on my ear and a sight flashed before me, a black pit. Out of it climbed naked people in stuttering, stiff movements, herky-jerky. I’d seen that movie, I thought, a Japanese horror movie, I’d seen it and it scared me. They were like puppets pulled and released on unseen strings, and their thin limbs were hairy and banded as the tails of rats.
“Like I did with the little doctor girl,” he said. “You can’t let people like that just keep going. She saw way too much. And then she opened her little bitch mouth. So she had to go. Didn’t she.”
I turned and stared at his smile. Then I bolted ahead, my stiletto heels biting into the turf, until I was near enough to grab Lena’s hand and use the contact to steady myself. I walked forward holding that little hand tightly, my mother on her other side, and looked down at her face that I love so much, trusting and bright.
I gazed at her face that banished fear and thought of not looking back—no matter what, I said to myself, no one can make me look back now.
AT THE RECEPTION (carefully steering clear of Ned, who was at the far side of my parents’ house glad-handing the mourners) I took Will’s arm and pulled him into the kitchen with me, where we could talk. I watched Lena through the open door, carrying a tray of food with my mother at her side. I felt cracked and hollow.
Drinking wine didn’t make me less parched but at least it loosened the tendons on my neck. I was living in a half-life, I thought, a life of distorted lenses where I couldn’t trust anymore that a man’s skin wouldn’t pixelate beside me. Even my thoughts weren’t my own, and without them I wasn’t myself. Alone had been free, I saw that now—alone had frightened me but the air was clear there. Now I was in prison, without the privacy of my mind. With those claws in my thoughts I wasn’t myself—I wasn’t anyone.
Will and I stood and gulped from our goblets beside the trays of brought food, the donated lasagnas and plates of brownies crowded onto the island. I made myself focus on the practical and asked him what had happened over the past weeks.
I didn’t say months. I was trying to test the waters.
“You mean—in the news?” he asked.
“I mean with us,” I said. “What have we been doing?”
“Besides your father—helping take care of him? Besides the illness?”
“We’ve been here at the house for a long time,” I repeated, tentative. “Just here with my parents.”
I saw in his face: Of course. Yes.
So it had been a nightmare, I’d been here, where I needed to be, with them. That motel room and fluttering fast-forward of days and weeks and months had been a memory Ned implanted when he took away the rest.
“Is he threatening you again?” asked Will urgently. “Did he say something threatening?”
“It’s not what he threatens,” I said. “He said—he said he did it to Kay. He said she saw t-too clearly. Somehow he did it, Will. She d-didn’t do it to herself.”
I was starting to stammer, a habit I thought I’d gotten rid of as a child. Will reached out and held my shoulders.
“And now I don’t have the right memories. This—it’s like I wasn’t here till today. I don’t remember anything since March. Right after the fire, after Kay. And he says it was him. In my head. He did it to her and he can do it to me.”
“You don’t have the right memories,” repeated Will.
I mumbled what Ned had said—his fingers, the holes in my head. My hands had started shaking. “You were reading Goodnight Moon. I had this—I thought my hair was growing just, just fast—”
“Anna,” said Will, and moved his hands onto my own to hold them still.
“That’s all I have since then, all I have since March, since we moved back to the motel—it was the week after your house burned, remember? Listen. He robbed me of this time. These months. His face talked to me from the computer . . . .”
I looked down at my nails, my nails on the fingers held by his fingers, wanting some evidence to show for all of it, but the evidence was gone. It was my interior life Ned commandeered, that was all. Not time. He couldn’t do that. I was half-comforted.
“My fingernails were never long,” I said dimly.
Will was looking into my eyes intently, but I couldn’t describe it any better. As he stared at me, waiting worriedly for me to explain myself, I thought of checking this journal—I’d open this document, see what I’d recorded. Maybe, in the real months that had been taken from me, I’d written real entries. I’d check tonight, I decided.
“I have to tell Don,” said Will. He was patting his jacket pockets, searching. “This has to be it. This is what we expected. He wants you to look fucked up. Depressed and grief-stricken. After your father’s death, you’re going to . . . he’s going to do it. Maybe just pills, like Kay, but he’s going to make you—he’s down in the polls. He could actually lose this. He and his people are desperate. He needs the sympathy vote.”
He found his phone and dialed it.
“Sympathy?” I asked. I noticed I was holding the stem of my wineglass too hard. I set the goblet down on the countertop, then picked it up and drained it. “I don’t understand it, Will. Do you?”
But then he was saying he couldn’t get cell service in here and headed out the kitchen door, slipping his phone against his cheek. “Stay here, stay right here,” he called back. “OK? Don’t get near him.”
Lena, I thought: Where was she? Still offering her tray of food to guests? I’d forgotten to watch her for maybe five minutes by then and my mother might not be vigilant enough. She knew Ned had taken my daughter before, but she didn’t know this new Ned, this Ned phase-shifted into pixels and a grin that was a rictus. This one who said bitch instead of honey, whose skin had pulled back from his face to reveal bone and metal . . . I looked down the hallway at the milling people, pushing away the fact that Will had asked me to stay here: it didn’t include panic over having to look for my girl. Then I was out of the kitchen, rushing to get to the living room.
There was my mother, talking to an old woman with a walker, and there was Solly, there was Luisa.
I couldn’t see Lena. I didn’t see her.
I pushed my way through the people, made it to the front door, and hesitated. There was a ringing in my ears and my hands felt too numb to turn the knob.
But then I was outside, and I must have left my heels behind because I was standing on the front porch in nylons, feeling the rubber nubbins of their welcome mat against my soles. Closest to me were Main and Big Linda, right there on the path from the street, and Lena was holding Main Linda’s hand and picking with a stick at the sole of her shoe—it seemed to have a piece of gum stuck to it. She waved the stick when she saw me, grinning.
They were watching our suburban Fourth of July parade, whose route comes down our street every third year. There were floats and bunting that glittered red, white, and blue; there were some kids in an off-key marching band, a girl turning cartwheels. Up came a horse-drawn buggy decorated with stars-’n’-stripes and the name of a car dealership, and then, in the bed of a pickup truck, a human-sized blow-up statue of liberty with a big head. Its torch flames were made of yellow plastic streamers, blown upward from a small fan below in the truck bed. They snapped and fluttered in the breeze.
The Lindas were looking out at the street and didn’t turn. Nearby Don and his aged father stood near a waxy rhododendron bush, the father leaning on his cane; up toward the sidewalk, on the burnt July grass, were the other motel guests, Navid and the Dutch couple. There were Burke and Gabe, just getting out of a car parked at the curb. I thought maybe I should talk to them, thank them for coming, but they were watching the parade, all of their faces turned toward it. I would wait, I decided.
I walked down the sagging wood steps and went over to Lena, feeling the grass poke between my toes; I took the gum-stick from her gently and tossed it into a bush. With her hand in mine I turned to look at the parade.
But as I gazed at it—the high school marching band passing—the marchers changed. Their uniforms faded to drab brown and gray; some of them were wearing hoodies or hats, some dragged bags after them, scraping the street—their instruments were gone, and instead of the instruments they carried sacks full of trash, sacks leaking fluids I couldn’t make out, leaving brown-red streaks on the road. Their heads hung down. Their passage had a dreadful weight.
As I stared at them, all at once, they raised their faces to me. Hideous. Some seemed to be wearing gluey, primitive masks; some looked like burn victims and others were pimply teenagers, some were middle-aged with bad teeth and glasses. Some were diseased, their eyes red-rimmed, lesions that looked like eczema or leprosy splitting the skin of their faces. The worst were crones with thinning hair, clumps of ragged gray sticking to yellow scalps.
But they were all Lena.
“No,” I said out loud.
They were Lena old, young, wretched, in a hundred distortions. That’s why we have to die first, I thought, panicked: before they get so old. I shook off the urge to throw up.
Around me the motel guests were watching the parade and smiling. They didn’t see what I saw.
I had to be defiant. It wasn’t the time to play dead.
“Is this show all for me, Ned?”
The parade shifted so that, for a moment, I saw normality—a second of cheerleaders with pompoms. Then the ruined Lenas were back, deformed and crooked, shambling. They made noises low in their throats. I saw a toddler so thin she was almost a skeleton.
“This is ridiculous,” I said, summoning a desperate bluster. “Give it up, Ned.” I moved my eyes off the parade and fixed them on the solid, actual Lena beside me. No one seemed to be hearing what I said.
I looked over my shoulder and saw the front windows of the house and sure enough there was Ned, his grin a death’s-head rictus through the glass.
“They got here fast, didn’t they,” came a voice. Will’s.
He was on the porch. I pulled Lena with me, stepping back onto the lawn to meet him as he walked down the steps and grazed my cheek gently with the backs of his curled fingers. Once he was near us the yard felt more physical, the house—and when I turned back to the street the parade was normal, just a small-town parade befitting my parent’s sleepy suburb.
My body slumped in relief.
“I thought we were supposed to be the ones that didn’t go crazy,” I said, and leaned against Will, my whole body sagging against his side.
“You’re not crazy,” he said. “He just wants you to feel that way. And look like it. So your suicide’s credible. Do you believe me?”
I cocked my head at him and nodded slowly.
“The others are here,” I said.
“They came when they heard about your father.”
“But Will. Ned’s calling the shots. He’s still—he’s in my head, messing around with me. The parade? To me it looked different.”
“So,” said Main Linda, approaching. “Hey. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“We’re all so sorry,” added Big Linda.
Navid hugged me lightly. He wore a dark suit almost as expensive as one of Ned’s, I noticed. And he was clean-shaven again.
In the street several jeeps passed by with banners supporting the armed forces.
“Soldiers,” said Lena helpfully.
“Brave young Americans,” came Ned’s voice from behind us. “How do you like the parade, Anna?”
I opted not to turn around. The others barely acknowledged his presence either, but I felt them tense and stiffen, I felt their mood turn gray.
“Can we see fireworks?” asked Lena.
“It has to be dark for fireworks,” said Will.
“That’s later on tonight,” said Big Linda.
“But can I stay up late?”
“Of course you can,” I said.
“I’ll see you then,” said Ned, and he strode down to the sidewalk, two suited bodyguards converging on him as he went, the engine of a parked car revving.
Watching him get into the backseat of the car, hearing the curt slams of three car doors in a row as the bodyguards got into the front, was when it hit me: one job remains to me. However bad it is now, I saw—his cartoon-thug tactics, the way he used my love for my daughter against me—it will be far worse if he wins. And not just for Lena and me, not only for us, not at all.
I’ve been blindered for months—maybe the whole length of my life. These visions and pixels make it obvious. Around me is the desperation of others, the arms of supplicants growing out of the dirt, and I’ve walked through those fields as though there’s nothing there but tall grass. I should have played dirty long ago.
The living spring from the dead, was the first thing I had heard.
I smile thinking of it. Maybe the dead had been me.
I won’t have Lena if I don’t even have myself. And Ned has a sociopath’s overconfidence, that’s his weakness. Maybe he’s made mistakes that can be used against him, one or more of his obvious, arrogant, flagrantly taken risks.
“Why are they really here?” I asked Will as we headed back into the house with Lena. The motel guests were drawing closer together on my parents’ lawn.
“To be of service,” he said.
And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon. —King James Bible, Revelation 12:7
62 percent of Americans . . . think recent natural disasters are evidence of global climate change while 49 percent say such disasters are evidence of biblical end times. —Washington Post, 11.21.2014
I WRITE THIS in my old room with the bulletin board, where among the dust bunnies on a closet shelf I found a fortune-teller made of pink construction paper. It’s numbered with blunted pencil on the finger flaps, and inside each flap is an outcome scrawled in miniature writing. My friends and I made them up, giggling hysterically, during a sleepover when I was in sixth grade. You will be Famous (for Burping the national Anthem) / You will be Rich but Really Dumb / Our Love will never Die.
In the corner is a crate of my old records, on top of which an LP lies flat. It bears a once-famous logo, a black-and-white dog staring into the cone of a gramophone beneath the words His Master’s Voice.
When I looked into this Word file to see what I might have written during my lost spring, all I found after the cut and pasted-in email from Kay’s parents were two fragments.
I assume I wrote them, but have no memory of it.
Say God is a complex grammar that doesn’t coexist with our own language, its ego-driven structures. Say Kay is right and dolphins or whales can be its hosts for their whole lives, instead of funneling it briefly as Lena did, because the form of language that emerges in those animals doesn’t displace the deep grammar the way ours does. Say that deep language, whose name may also be God, stays with them because their communication systems, though capable of individuation, are not devoted to the self. Say we’re left on our own, as Kay had it, when we pronounce our first words and God deserts us, and it’s in that respect that we’re different from the other beasts and different from the aspen trees. Then it has to be said also that instead of being raised above the other kinds of life—instead of being special as we have always claimed—we’re only more alone.
That one was peppered with errors of rapid typing that I’ve fixed. The other was this:
Some people hear more, some less, some nothing at all. What we hear is what we can hear, its content minutely tailored to our character and biases. That means, if I believe her, that even we, who should be outside the range of any dogmatic faith, even we only ever know the God our personality describes.
Lena, living out a fixation on the cute, has made the screen on our tablet into a picture of a fawn in a snowy forest glade, looking over its shoulder with big dark eyes as flakes fall and soften the world around it. The only moving elements are its eyes, which every so often blink, and the snow. I look at it now, while she runs through the sprinkler in the backyard with Will.
I can see them out my window if I scooch my desk chair sideways—there. Better.
The fawn with its dark, slowly blinking eyes takes me back to Ned’s beautiful girlfriend, the young model or model lookalike. Where is she now? I could do so much good mischief if I had just a little time-stamped footage of her and Ned together.
Of course any action I take is a risk to Lena and there’s no way to attack him from anonymity. Everything’s obvious now that I know he actively wishes me harm. It’s transparent that nothing binds him to the norms of decency—no guarantee exists, none ever did. There was never a contract to rely on, some solid agreement that could be wielded in a court, only my naive belief that such abstractions have any weight at all.
All my credulity is out the window now, that frail screen of written-on paper I let myself believe would keep the world predictable. Ned’s handshakes add up to less than nothing—or nothing but the flag my gullibility flew on. Don and Will and their fears, well, those fears were only a slice of the malice that Ned is.
Maybe the knowledge is chilling—it is, when I don’t block it out stubbornly—but it also means I have no reason to jump at his command anymore, there’s nothing left to make me do what he wants me to. So he’s now lost his postcard family. He shouldn’t have shown himself, and I wonder why he did, because he could have strung me along forever, practically, while I still believed he could be bargained with.
Now I know he doesn’t bargain. He only pretends to.
And he has nothing left to get from me. Nothing but the last thing.
It must be his narcissism that’s to blame, maybe he couldn’t help showing me how powerful he is. Maybe he had to flaunt it.
And all I have left is this: my girl and her uncertain future.
She used to look forward to every new day.
THE OTHER MOTEL GUESTS insisted on staying close, crowding around Lena and me as we walked across the parking lot. We’d left Solly and Luisa and my mother at home, my mother so she could help the caterers clean up, Solly and Luisa so they could pack to leave for Manhattan the next day. But they urged Will and me to take Lena out. Let the child see the bombs bursting in air, at least, on this death-textured day.
The show was being put on at a Minor League baseball stadium about twenty minutes from my parents’ that’s always been the perfect place for pyrotechnics; we used to go there for the Fourth when I was a kid. Until I went to college I came here every Independence Day, first with my parents and Solly, then with a swarm of classmates, and by my last years in high school with guys in their hand-me-down family cars—not watching the show, just using the dark and crowds and noise as camouflage. That was when the stadium was small and dilapidated, with wooden seats, before it was renovated into the slick behemoth it is now.
I led the others into the elevator and we went all the way to the last row, where the view was worst for sports but best for fireworks. It had been a hot day but now a breeze swept up and chilled me; I’d remembered to bring a jacket for Lena, but not one for myself. As we filed along into our seats my arms came up in goosebumps.
Ned would have to work hard to find us, I figured, and of course there was no good reason he should try: no photo op, no obvious prospect of gain. Then again, hounding me seemed to be its own reward. He was always able to trace my movements. And he’d said he was coming.
Tumbling acrobats erupted onto the field, frolicked and ran off again; lumpy costumed creatures ran out next, waggling their top-heavy bodies, possibly cartoon animals connected to a TV show. Tinny pop music blared loudly from a bad sound system to accompany their antics, then mercifully cut off. Vendors of popcorn and glow-in-the-dark novelties moved among the seats; I bought Lena a whistle in the colors of the rainbow. Finally the main show started, a local orchestra that tuned up and launched into a jumbled rendition of the 1812 Overture.
Maybe it wasn’t jumbled, I thought, maybe the flaw was in my ear, maybe Ned’s long fingers had twisted even the music that I heard.
Lena bounced off my lap in delight when the first firecrackers shot into the sky. She’d moved along to sit with Main Linda by the time, a few minutes later, her father appeared at the end of our row.
He wasn’t wearing a suit and tie for once; in a jacket and a polo shirt he was strictly business casual. Where was his bodyguard, I thought, his driver, the fake Secret Service guy? There was always one of them at least, but I saw no one near. Maybe they were seated somewhere, hidden in the crowd.
I moved out toward him instantly, exactly as though I wanted to be in his company and sought it out—and I did want to, I wanted nothing more than to reach him at that moment. Instead of a rush of adrenaline or heavy dread it was a stolid calm that guided my progress; I barely noticed the guests as I inched myself along between their jutting-out knees and the seatbacks in front of us. It was almost romantic, as though, beneath the falling pink stars and showers of green, there was no one anymore but Ned and me.
Stepping onto the catwalk I remembered parking with a boyfriend senior year, just a few steps from the stadium wall. I knew the moldy smell of the seats in his car, the lacy brown rust along the bottom of the doors, and how we’d thought of the fireworks as our soundtrack—the world was about us. We were sure of that as we made out, moving in the darkness of the car with our long, lean arms and legs bound up in each other, that soft skin tingling over the curves, thrilled by the conviction that this here, this was the only and the all. There was no question, then, that the world had been created as our scenery.
That was the bliss of being young, the pure egoist joy. But if you get old and don’t grow out of it, I thought, looking up at my husband, you are ruined.
Maybe he’d never had a chance for that. Maybe he never had that kind of youth. Maybe he could only feel it now.
I leaned in as though I wanted to kiss him, and though I don’t think he believed or wished for that anymore he must have been surprised for a moment. He’s always assumed I’m harmless, pathetically harmless, and that gave me a couple of seconds’ grace to slam my hands against his chest. I was feeling nothing for him then but a pity that stretched all the way back to his childhood, all the way back to before he was him.
At the second of contact I saw how the guests had been drawn together, dots gathering around a node or birds flocking to a flyway. I saw Ned and his ominous host converging on us like a machine army—even the child in the subway train, even the air in the tires of my car, even the fire that had burned the house, all these were his armaments. I saw in every granule and wave how my husband’s power had seemed impossible, how it had borne the sheen of dark magic for me but was constituted of energy, energy subverted.
And when the heels of my hands came off him again, the images faded.
But it wasn’t easy to send him over the rail. I didn’t have enough weight behind me or enough leverage; maybe the angle of my approach was weak. I felt the bulk of his chest against my hands, the shock of his unyielding body as he leaned back. The chest was the wrong place to hit, a mistake that almost cost me my life: he was well-balanced with the rail against the backs of his thighs. Instead of toppling backwards he grabbed me and steadied himself—a strong man as well as a beautiful one. With his disciplined allegiance to fitness he’d always had strength. Discipline equals strength, though the coldness of the equation is depressing—unfair, it seemed to me as I felt instantly shocked and made foolish by the feebleness of my attack.
I’d felt its prospect tingle on my skin and seconds later that prospect had ebbed. My chance had passed. Why does strength hold itself so stubbornly away, why can’t it be that we can summon it out of feeling or impulse, out of just wanting to? Fear made my legs weak. I couldn’t move.
One hand grabbed my right shoulder and the other dug into my left wrist like a claw, and then it was twisting me there, by the wrist, and I don’t know if I gasped or shrieked.
But all the time he was smiling.
Then he raised his hand from my shoulder and, still smiling, punched my face with it, sideways and hard. I felt my nose crunch and the pain was blinding; my eyes squeezed shut and now he was punching me again. And again. My tongue felt a loose molar and my mouth was full of blood.
I was willing to fall with him if I had to. I feared being crippled, but dying I could stand, as long as I could hold a picture of Lena in safety as I fell, Lena in Solly’s care, Solly and Luisa keeping her safe from harm. Before I could push myself forward and topple us both there was a rush of others around me, a cluster of people, and it’s hard to say what the geometry was. Ned must have known I wasn’t alone, but only then did his smile flicker. Or so I believe. I couldn’t see much by then, was blinded by the blood in my eyes.
I know there were others all around me but I couldn’t say if we made noise, I couldn’t say how our hands moved or our feet, couldn’t say much about who did what, whose bodies pushed or pulled, all I can say is that at a certain point I swiped at my eyes and saw we were by ourselves.
Ned was gone.
And when we looked around us—after we leaned over the rail and stared down into a pool of black that didn’t tell us anything—we found the crowd seemed to have ignored our scuffle. But I wasn’t paying attention, I was preoccupied by the pain in my face, the blood dripping down my chin. My nose made a high wheezing noise when I breathed. Will took my hand, Navid was squeezing my shoulder, and then we turned and in a rush we pounded down the stairs—other than me it was all men, Will and Gabe and Burke and Navid and Don; Lena was away from all of it, back in the seats, deep into the row surrounded by the Lindas.
We pounded down and out and around, running hard until we got to the right stretch of pavement. In the dark I breathed my fast, wheezing breaths, tried not to faint from the acuteness of the pain. There wasn’t a floodlight anywhere near us and I couldn’t see his face. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to.
Finally someone found a penlight—I think it was hanging off a keychain—and its weak light was dancing over Ned’s head and shoulders, a small spot unequal to the task, lighting the planes of his face in a piecemeal way. I clenched my hands into fists so the pressure would anchor me against unreality.
But he looked as real as anything lying there, real and even alive, his magnetism intact despite the white polo shirt that should have left him looking like an out-of-place golfer. His jacket was spread open at his sides like wings, his arms were flung out, eyes nearly closed, well-shaped mouth just a bit open. The skin of his face was stainless, almost without a pore, its same delicate hue of salon gold.
Only the pebbly asphalt around his head was stained.
NEWS OF HIS death ran in Alaskan media outlets: heroically trying to save a fellow climber, he’d lost his footing in the mountains and plummeted. On the main street in Anchorage there were altars of flowers and photographs. People held candlelight vigils, although (said Charley) they were notably more modest than for fallen celebrities.
There are cameras at the stadium but maybe it was too dark for them to capture what had happened: in any case none of us were ever contacted, none of us were questioned. I have to conclude this was intentional—that it wouldn’t have jibed with the narrative.
We stayed in my parents’ house for two weeks after the Fourth. I had to have my nose reset and the bruises around my eyes are still fading; the tooth I lost was at the back so the gap doesn’t show.
Lena asked about the nose and the bruises, of course. I thought about not telling her, but then I thought again and I did. “I pushed your daddy,” I said. “Listen. I’m not proud of it. It’s not the way to solve problems. But then he hit me back. Harder. Men shouldn’t ever hit women.”
“He should have only pushed you back,” said Lena, pragmatic. “It’s not fair. I’m glad I don’t like him.”
“Lena,” I said, holding her hands, “your daddy’s not coming back. We won’t see him again.”
“That’s good,” she said.
I’VE BEEN HELPING my mother with the funeral aftermath. Solly had to go back to work, so we said goodbye to him and Luisa and waved to them from the front porch as they drove off.
After they left we moved at our leisure through tidy rooms, curating the many vases of cut flowers as their rotting stems sloughed off into the clouding water. We sorted clothes and shoes into boxes for donation, read and acknowledged condolence cards; we cleaned out my father’s desk, his chest of drawers, the file cabinets and high-up shelves at the back of his closet. I drove my mother to the bank to fill out forms, went online to switch her utilities and other services out of his name, made sure she filed a claim with the life-insurance carrier.
While we were going about these dull tasks, Will walked with Lena to a nearby park, a nearby pool. He took her to the movies, to a beach in Connecticut, and once to a state fair, where they went on a Tilt-A-Whirl, ate funnel cakes with powdered sugar and, by shooting a water gun, won her an orange stuffed giraffe.
Those public places, open to the world, the two of them were able to wander through in liberty.
For me it was a melancholy, dreary time with a curious softness. I kept waiting—I wait even now—but so far I’ve found no moral torment in being a murderer.
None at all.
IF WHAT SLIPS through to us from the deeper language is filtered and textured by our own interests and affections—our ties to babies or animals or trees—maybe I heard only what I could.
Maybe our gods are as small as we are or as large, varying with the size of our empathy. Maybe when a man’s mind is small his God shrinks to fit.
Because if you’re the kind of person who wants to know what’s at the end of the universe, what’s at the edge of being, and you grow older and older and comprehension settles on you that you’ll never know, despair can well up. The question of what we don’t see, what’s beyond our capacity—in the space where the answer should be, in the knowledge that nothing will ever give us that answer—we have to pass through all the dark nights we live until we die. Never to see what’s at the end of infinity, never to see the future of what we love, even the hidden lives of our children—
the knowledge breaks our hearts. It nearly cracks us open as we walk.
It’s enough of a burden, that futile desire to know more than we ever can. But worse than the mind’s natural limits, far worse is the invasion of its privacy. Ned’s desecration of my thoughts, that was a distortion I could never have kept living with, that conversion of the world’s airy expansiveness and wild unknowns into gray squares. Compared to that violence the presence of divinity was gentle.
With language, with the splendid idea of an intelligence that lasted forever, at least I still had my own perceptions, my own moods. I had room for doubt, plenty of space for movement. That room and space could be inhabited. But Ned’s monotony of empty assertions in the service of self-promotion, self-replication and mastery for its own sake, his reach that extended past the boundaries of even the body—that was a weapon without end.
DON CALLED ME tonight, just called me on the cell phone. Slowly I’m learning to live with his pronouncements. It wasn’t over, he said, as I had to know: in fact we were still at the start. My husband happened to be the first we met, he said, the first we encountered personally, but another had already risen to take his place. There are many like him.
They are legion, said Don. They speak in false tongues and want to own the world.
No, scratch that, he said. We both know they own the world already, but now they want even more.
Now they want to make it over in their own image.
“Are you ready?” he asked me.
I THINK OF what Kay wrote in her mania.
Deep language is in all living things but all the others, it stays with. Only not humans . . . God leaves us, Anna, God leaves us.
Yet we’re the children of that language—not the only children, that boast was always a rookie mistake, but among their multitudes. We still swim in the shallows of that vast and ancient sea, the water that runs through us, a coding of genes and flesh that lives on in beings and cultures. We are those bonds that make our nervous systems, our circulation, our lungs exert their miraculous intelligence without our direction—the beneath and always, the insane, preposterous motion of life.
Let God leave us, Kay, if what you mean is constant company. Let God leave us! Let us grow up. Let us walk forward on our own. Because we need the silence of the holy: we need the sacred and equally we need its maddening silence. And in the curious privacy and relief of that silence we can go out into the chaos and commit a thousand acts of minor and gleeful splendor all our own. If it’s our tragedy to be left by God, then let it also be our luck.
Our loneliness is our strength. It’s not the same as being alone—almost the opposite. Loneliness is the sense of others, present but beyond our reach.
We feel a terrible tenderness, a terrible gratitude, and at the end we see that face and know the moment is here. The beast has come for us at last.