fifty-four

Nathan sat for a while after Merrit left. Outside, budding fuchsias bent double with the force of the wind. He placed the rolled-up fishing line he held on the table next to his coffee cup and let the whistle and howl of the wind bat at the edges of his faulty memory. The sublime scent of river mold that wafted up from his waders. The spray from the garden hose that misted over him as he sluiced river silt off of them.

He’d returned from a fishing trip the day Susannah died. Filleted bass stored in the freezer, and his fishing gear due for a good scrub. He was in fine form, whistling as he went about his business, while Susannah puttered about the kitchen with the ingredients for a new recipe laid out on the counter. She loved nothing better than a Sunday afternoon trip to the outdoor market, followed by sipping Italian red while she considered how to improve a recipe she’d never tried before.

That day, what was it to be? Something ridiculous that you’d only order in an overpriced restaurant. Something to do with quail eggs.

That day, Susannah’s favorite aria from Madame Butterfly blew around on a slight breeze. Nathan stood near the front door in view of the entryway and the stairs leading up to the bedrooms when she appeared with wineglass in hand. The last words she spoke to him were a joke between them, her detesting the fishy smell of him. “What shall it be for you today? I think the lemon balm soap. Come drink wine with me after your shower.”

He admired her in her slim capris as she trotted barefoot up the stairs to set out a fresh bar of soap for him. He turned away then to clean the rods and reels, losing time in a pleasant way. Thirty minutes later, in the garage, he paused in reaction to a muffled sound. A thump? A squeal? Perhaps nothing and memory supplied the details for the moment his life changed forever.

Whatever he sensed propelled him into the house to find Zoe bent over Susannah. Nathan froze at the sight of his wife sprawled, as limp as one of Nathan’s dead fish, at the bottom of the stairs with her head at an odd angle.

“I’m healing her.” Zoe’s intensity stained her cheeks red as she pressed her hands over her mother’s heart. “You know I can.”

“Stop it.” He ran forward and pushed at her. “Haven’t you called Emergency yet?”

“I can save her, I can.” She spread her hands on Susannah’s chest and closed her eyes, infuriating Nathan further. As he reached out to grab her away, Susannah’s eyes fluttered open. Her mouth opened and closed, and Nathan recoiled at its similarity to the fish he caught.

“See, Dad?” Zoe said.

Nathan dropped to his knees in time to see Susannah’s gaze turn blink-less.

“I did it, though, didn’t I?” Zoe scooted closer and repositioned her hands. “For a second, but it worked. Maybe if I keep—”

“Stop.”

“—trying. She should be okay—”

“Stop!”

He pushed her, too hard this time, so that she sprawled backward with a stricken expression. Immediately her young skin smoothed out and she crowded in on him with a hug. “I love you, Dad, and I’ll take care of you. You adored Mum, I know. She was so dear.”

He’d pulled away from her then, repulsed. “You should have called Emergency.”

His memory of Susannah’s death looked like Zoe bending over her slack form at the bottom of the staircase. It looked like his guilt. His faulty memory didn’t lessen the fact that Susannah’s death was his fault. Her death opened the doors for the darkness, that he knew. And later, after his keepers deemed him fit for civilization again, he’d settled into his pottery and a semi-itinerant life. What he’d call normal if normal included eluding his daughter.

Can yoouu kill, can yoouu kill

“Not now with that,” he muttered.

A noise pulled Nathan back into the kitchen. He tensed. The wind continued howling around the house. Thump. He made his way into the studio. The back door whipped out of his grip and banged into the wall. He ran to his firing shed and grabbed one of the aluminum cans. He dropped three bricks into it to prevent the wind from flinging it against the wall again and dashed back to the house. He yanked the back door closed and leaned against it. The wind had blown away the cobwebs. He knew what he needed to do next.

His stomach ached with hunger. Back in the kitchen, he poured himself another cup of coffee and ate a bowl of corn flakes without tasting them. He rinsed the bowl and spoon, set them in the drying rack, and picked up his mobile. He dialed Annie’s number.

Can yoouu kill, can yoouu kill

Nathan thought maybe he could.