Saturday
Halloween
The morning wears heavy on me, like an oppressively thick-layered coat that keeps the chill out and allows only the slowest, smallest movements. Showering and getting dressed saps the only ounces of energy I had to spare, and afterward, I sit in my kitchen and sip coffee, staring at nothing, trying to build back up a reserve.
The mantra comes back, just for a moment, and I feel the same commitment in the words as I did last night.
This is the last time.
I’m done being controlled. I’m done being a victim. The only way I can stop the panic attacks is to stop running. To stop the person after me. To shut down the MisterTender.com website. To end the peep show that is my life.
Which means, starting right now, I’m in charge.
The phone rings, and my mother’s number flashes on the screen. So it seems neither of us killed ourselves last night. Knowing she’s alive doesn’t make me upset or fill me with relief. It’s simply a piece of information, about which I feel very little. And for now, I want nothing to do with her.
A swipe of my thumb rejects her.
Thomas is awake, rummaging in the kitchen.
“Good morning,” I say. “Happy Halloween.”
“Oh yeah. Is that today?”
He is reanimated after his drug-induced stupor from last night.
“It is.”
“You have any bacon?”
“I think so. Bottom drawer of the fridge. You know how to cook that up?”
He speaks into the refrigerator. “I’m not a kid, Alice. I know how to cook.”
“Okay.” I look at him, a skinny puzzle of bones still draped in yesterday’s clothes. He looks like some kind of refugee, which I suppose is sort of what he is.
“Thomas, I want to restart our lives. Together.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Seriously. I don’t want you here just for the night. I want you away from Mom. We’ll go to a new doctor, get proper treatment, get off the pills.”
“Sure,” he mumbles. He finds the bacon, peels off three spongy strips, and places them in a small frying pan. “When you fry bacon, you don’t need oil,” he says. “The bacon fat takes care of that.”
He’s not connecting with me. Maybe he doesn’t believe my intentions, or perhaps he’s only capable of living in the immediate moment. Which makes me wonder.
“Thomas, do you remember when I came over to get you last night? At Mom’s?”
“Not much. I remember you spilling my Coke.”
“The argument with Mom, do you remember that? What we said?”
“Screaming, fighting, same old shit. I block out the details.”
He doesn’t remember—the drugs probably clouded everything. Which means he doesn’t know the truth about my real dad, and that Mister Tender is based on an actual person. He’s just simple, blissfully ignorant Thomas, and I have no desire to change that now. I don’t have the energy to tell him everything at the moment.
“Let’s talk later,” I say. “I have to go to work. Stay here, okay? There’s plenty of food, and I want you to lock the door after me. If Mom comes, don’t let her in, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Seriously, Thomas. I don’t think you remember a lot from last night, which is okay. But it’s clear you need to be with me now. No more Mom.” I watch for his reaction to this, but if there is one, I can’t perceive it. “Where’s your cell phone?”
“Back at Mom’s. I don’t have anything of mine here but the clothes I’m wearing.”
Though he’s a grown man, in the moment, all I see in Thomas is the little boy he insists he isn’t. It’s hard to reconcile this person with the man who shot Freddy Starks in the next room. With the man who helped me bury a body deep in the woods.
“Do you… I brought some of the yellow pills home. I don’t even know what they are. Do you need any to keep steady today?”
Now he looks at me for the first time with interest.
“Yes. Where are they?”
“On my counter, in the bathroom.” I don’t like the hunger I see in his eyes. “How often are you supposed to take them?”
“One every twelve hours. So I need one now.”
I turn, walk out of the kitchen, head upstairs. I take one pill from my bathroom counter and hide the rest in a pillowcase in my closet. Downstairs, back in the kitchen.
“Here,” I say, handing him the pill.
He knows I’ve hidden the rest; I can see it in the way he looks at me. “Thanks.”
“You okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t need time to think about it. “No. Are you?”
I shake my head. “No. But we both will be.”
Thomas shrugs, which is probably the best I could hope for.
“See you this afternoon, okay? Make yourself at home, be comfortable. Relax.”
“Okay.”
I turn and leave him. I feel some trepidation, like leaving a puppy home alone for the first time. I’m excited and scared for our future together.
I slip into my wool coat and grab my car keys. Though I won’t be driving, I don’t want Thomas getting any ideas. Outside, the morning clouds are low, just a few stories higher than a thick fog, and I picture reaching up and stirring the sky as if it were a thick witch’s brew.
A Halloween sky.
As I walk from my house, I shoot a brief glance back and look up at the Perch. Richard’s car is still in the driveway, which means he’s still up there. I wonder if he’s watching me. If he heard me call out last night. I don’t even remember if I screamed out or not. The last sound I remember is calling out for my dad. The first thing I recall after that is waking in a pool of sweat and sticky wine drops.
I stumble the few blocks to the Rose, my head pounding from a lack of water and sleep combined with an excess of wine and adrenaline. But now I need to focus, because this won’t be a normal day at work. Not after the photo I saw last night.
I pass the usual shops and antique stores, window displays heavily cobwebbed, windows painted with pumpkins and ghosts, a safe kind of fright.
I walk into the Rose, and instead of feeling the immediate comfort I usually do, an unease builds in me. I know these people, but how many do I actually trust? How many gazes on me have wicked thoughts inside the minds controlling them? Just one, I think. Just one.
The Ramones are singing “Pet Sematary,” and I know the playlist for today will be all eighties Halloween songs. Scanning the room, I see my usual customers, and instead of giving them my usual nod and smile, I go up to each of them and chat for a few moments. These short, simple moments make me aware of how incredibly alone I am. Aware of the barriers I’ve built around me for fourteen years. No more. I’m going to make connections, real connections. I’m going to have friends. A normal life, or none at all.
The whole time I'm greeting my regulars, my stomach muscles are so tight, they could stop a bullet. Be calm, Alice. Be normal.
When I see Brenda, she tells me, “Simon was active this morning when I opened. Maybe it being Halloween and all.”
“This must be like Christmas to him,” I say, not telling her I’ve had my own recent encounter. “Does it scare you to hear things like that?”
“No,” she says. “Because he’s never done anything scary. He just makes sounds. So I figure he’s not trying to hurt me.”
“That’s a good outlook,” I say, not adding, Though when harm suddenly comes, it’s usually too late for second-guessing.
She sweeps her gaze over me. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”
“Yeah, not a lot of sleep. But a lot hungover.”
“Can I assume you were with someone?”
I smile. “I wish.”
“Are you still having…you know, issues? With the creep who sent you that book?”
I dig my nails into my palms, but I don’t think she notices. “Yeah, still having issues. I just…I just need one normal night. A pleasant dinner, good conversation. I’m just so tired of this cycle.”
And then Brenda does what I hoped for.
She wipes her palms on her apron and looks straight at me with a determined expression. “Okay, that’s settled, then. You’re coming over for dinner tonight. Unless you already have plans?”
I need to make sure Thomas is okay, but I’m sure he can take care of himself for another few hours if I go out tonight. I need this. “I… No. No, I don’t have plans. But—”
“I don’t have plans, either,” she says. “I’m not much of a cook, but we can order takeout. We’ll have that good conversation and hand candy out to trick-or-treaters. Maybe watch a scary movie.”
“No scary movie,” I say. “But I can certainly tell you some scary stories.”
“Of course, of course. So it’s settled, then?”
I pause a moment, then nod. “It sounds great. Thank you, Brenda.”
“Cool. Come over at seven?”
“See you then.”
Brenda flashes that smile and holds her gaze on me a moment longer. It’s quite magnetic, though suddenly different from all her smiles of the past. Everything is different now. Then she twirls around and walks up to a customer approaching the counter. She moves her magical gaze to the man, and I expect that, for a few seconds, he feels like he is the only person in Brenda’s world. The man smiles.
• • •
I’m home by three. I’m relieved to see Thomas asleep on the couch, the blanket pulled all the way up to his chin. A white plate stained with bacon grease and holding a half-eaten English muffin sits on the floor next to the couch, though there’s a coffee table that would have easily accommodated it. Water glass, half full. Dirty socks, crumpled in wads. As I look down at him, all I want to do is sleep. My body craves it, and when I head upstairs and collapse on my bed, it comes fast. Deep and dreamless. My alarm buzzes at 6:00 p.m. I’m dizzy and confused, and for a few moments, I can’t remember where I am or what day it even is. When it all suddenly rushes back at me, I feel an instant yearning for those fleeting seconds when I couldn’t remember. Amnesia must be the ultimate high.
I stumble to the window, stretch, and look out onto the now-dark streetscape. I see a few groups of people on the street, parents with young kids, making their way from house to house. The early rounds of trick-or-treaters are always the ones with the chaperones. By eight, it’ll be the middle schoolers out on their own, and by nine, high school kids will be the only ones left on the prowl.
I haven’t a single piece of candy to give out.
A hot shower injects life back into me, and when I’m dressed, I go downstairs to Thomas.
He’s still on the couch, which worries me.
I walk over and give him a gentle nudge.
“Thomas.”
He says nothing.
I push harder.
“Thomas, wake up.”
This time, he moves, just a little. Lets out a low moan.
I give his face a light slap.
“Thomas.”
Eyes closed, he grumbles, “Wha…”
“Thomas, what’s wrong? Can you get up?”
“Let me sleep.”
Then it hits me. “Did you take anything? Anything besides the yellow pill?” Maybe he found the other ones, but how? Or…
Of course. I’m such an idiot. I run back upstairs to my bathroom and yank open the medicine cabinet. Thomas isn’t the only one with medication. I have my own, but since I rarely take any, I’d forgotten all about it. Two bottles, one with Xanax, the other with Ambien. They are out of place. I snatch up both bottles and hide them in a pair of boots in my closet.
Back downstairs. “How much did you take, Thomas?” My mouth is next to his ear, and I gently slap his face a few more times.
“Leave me alone,” he moans, then flips to face away from me.
“I need to know how many pills you took. Tell me.”
“Two…”
“Two what, Thomas? Two of which medication?”
His words are muffled into the couch cushion. “One of each.”
Okay, one Ambien and one Xanax. That’ll deliver a good knockout punch, but I don’t think it’s enough to be dangerous.
“What time, Thomas? When did you take them?”
No answer.
“Thomas, answer me!”
“I don’t fucking know. Earlier. Now leave me alone.”
His sharp reply tells me he’s going to be fine, but he might be sleeping for a while. He’s due soon for another yellow pill, but I have no idea what that could do combined with what else he took. Better to wait until tomorrow.
As I stand, I spy a small devil walking up my driveway.
“Thomas, I have to go out tonight. It’s important. Otherwise I’d stay here with you.”
“Okay, just go.” The devil knocks on my door, but I don’t answer.
“It’s Halloween. There are going to be trick-or-treaters, but I don’t have any candy. Just ignore them, okay?”
His only reply is a soft snore. He’s out again.
A second knocking at my door, but I don’t answer it.
I put on my coat and wool hat, then grab a bottle of wine from the kitchen. After a few seconds of thought, I decide to grab the folding wine opener and slide it into my coat pocket. With its coiled steel needle and inch-long foil cutter, it’s the closest thing to a knife I own.
I move about the house, turning off most of the lights. I usually leave them on, because I don’t like arriving to a dark house at night, but a dark house might let the trick-or-treaters know not to bother with this property.
I walk outside, then lock the door behind me. Richard is sitting on the nearby porch steps. He’s handing out candy to the devil and another kid dressed as something from Star Wars. He cranes his head around as he hears me approach from behind.
“I heard them down here. Wasn’t sure if you were handing out candy, so I came down.”
I flip my collar to the cold. “Thomas is inside, but he’s sleeping. I’m headed out. So feel free.”
The kids scamper back down the driveway as their parents wave a thank you to Richard.
“Your brother is here? How’s he doing?”
There are several easy, bullshit answers I could give to this, but I choose an honest one.
“He’s broken.”
Richard seems to accept this.
“And what about you, Alice? Are you broken, too?”
“I’m just trying to control the damage at this point.”
Just last night, I held a fire poker high in the air, ready to brain him with it. That feels so long ago.
“Let me know if I can help,” he says. “I can be good at damage control.”
I snap my head to him. “Why do you want to help me?” Then my hands burrow into my coat pockets, and my thumb runs up and down the cool metal of the wine opener. “I pulled you into something you never should have been a part of. I’m a mess. My life is falling apart around me. You should want nothing to do with me.”
“Yet here I am,” he says. “Telling you I want to help if I can. I never claimed to be logical. I’m just telling you how I feel.”
The clash between logic and emotion seems to define whatever kind of relationship this is. It’s that same clash confusing me about whether I should trust Richard. So far, I keep leaning toward trust, though my logic keeps poking at me, reminding me of what can happen when you trust too much. Or at all.
Still, he could help me. I revisit a thought I had earlier in the day.
“Okay, want to help me? Download an app called Find My Phone.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you if it gets to that point. Just install that app on your phone, okay?”
He shrugs. “Sure, okay, Alice. If that helps you.”
I pull my own phone from my purse and check the battery. Ninety-two percent. Good.
“You just going to sit out here in the cold and hand out candy?” I ask him.
“It’s not that cold. Figure I’d do it until I ran out. I don’t have that much.”
“Have fun.”
As I reach the sidewalk, Richard calls out.
“Happy Halloween, Alice.”
I raise a hand in acknowledgment but don’t call back. I feel him watch as I walk away, his gaze boring into me, until I deepen and darken, eventually becoming another indistinguishable piece of blackness in the night.