23

Susan was past New Paltz now, an hour and a half from the city and Andrea.

It was still early, not yet noon, and she knew exactly what had to be done.

The bottle of sleeping pills, eighteen in all, were secreted next to her, in her purse. (“Half a one will make you sleepy, a whole one will knock you out.”)

What would eighteen do?

They would save her. She would be dead before the thing could take her. Could force her to consent.

But first she would speak to Andrea. She would tell her how much she loved her, how much the child had added to her life, how proud and grateful she was to have had her.

She would give Andrea a message to hear, over and over again, in the years before the memory of her mother faded, as her own memory of her father had done.

She would hold her beloved once more and then cheat hell itself.

If there was a hell, there was a heaven. She would see Tara and Harriet again.

Happily, not Mrs. Roos. She had been spared. (“No more!” Susan was screaming when the men found her. “No more!” And she fled before the police arrived.)

Oddly, she was calm. Only the unknown had the power to frighten her. And now nothing was unknown.

She even smiled at the thought that everything she had been told as a child was true. All the prayers, all the lore and fables. All true.

It comforted her, as she drove to her death, to know that the universe was a simpler place than man made out of late; there was good and evil, God and hell, love and hate, all balancing one another in an orderly, predictable progression.

To fight was chaos.

To flow with it, order.

Her death would be correct. And in pursuing it herself (no struggle, no denial) she would rid herself of the grotesquery that wanted her.

She would be as free after her death as she was before her birth.

The cosmic rightfulness.

She glanced in the rearview mirror (could the police have followed her from Mrs. Roos’s motel?). Only a red van, directly behind her.

She turned on the radio and luckily found Mozart to spend her last hours with. The purity of the music reaffirmed what she had been thinking.

This, then, was her first religious experience, coming as it did at the end of her life. Perhaps she could tell Andrea something of it; something the child could hold to when the world (in her absence) told her there was no meaning to it all.

She was driving across the Harriman State Park, less than an hour from her daughter.

The question of Lou returned. Ought she to see him, too, to say goodbye?

In her present calm she decided she would. Perhaps she could tell him something of the truth she knew, both for his sake and Andrea’s. She felt no resentment now; he had turned away from her the way she had turned away from God. There was no fault in either; it was done out of ignorance, not malice.

And three cars behind her. A red van speeded up.

She parked down the block from the school a little after one, and, sitting there for a moment, gathering her thoughts, knowing the last thing she had to do in life would be the most difficult, she fought the desire to weep.

She entered the lobby of the school (the pictures on the walls were different now; she felt no pang of remorse or failure) and went upstairs to Andrea’s classroom.

It was empty.

Of course—the children would be at lunch, in the basement cafeteria.

She climbed down two flights of stairs, rehearsing.

(“I love you more than anything in the world, Andrea. I’ve always loved you. I always will. But I have to go away for good now. . . .”)

The cafeteria was a hubbub of noisy, happy children and tolerant, if weary, teachers. Susan sought Andrea’s face among the hundreds.

She saw her teacher, Candy, dispensing cartons of milk at one of the long central tables and went to her.

“Mrs. Reed,” Candy said with obvious surprise. “You’re back.”

“Yes. Is Andrea here?”

The teacher’s face briefly registered concern, then she took Susan by the arm and walked her to the wall, farther from the children.

“She’s upstairs with Janet Rasmason.”

Nurse Rasmason.

“Why? What happened?”

“Nothing, she’s fine. Just upset.”

“Why?”

“You’d better see Janet about it. On the second floor, room . . .” But Susan was already hurrying away, between the aisles of boisterous children.

Upstairs, Janet Rasmason’s door was closed. Susan rapped softly, and in a moment the young nurse opened it.

“Mrs. Reed, they did reach you.”

“No, I was downstairs. What happened?”

The young woman came into the hallway, closing the door after her.

“I was called down to the office about an hour ago. Andrea was having an anxiety attack, as near as I could tell. She was crying, completely incoherent . . .”

“What happened?” Susan repeated desperately.

“Well, that’s just it. We’re not sure. She got a phone call and when she was brought down to answer it . . .”

Susan heard no more. She covered her face and whispered, “No, please. Don’t do this. Not to her. Not to a baby.”

Later, when Nurse Rasmason was sure that Susan was in control of herself, she allowed her to see Andrea. The child was sleeping on a cot in her office. Even in her sleep, one could see the effect of the Silence on her. She trembled occasionally, her face contorted from the nightmares she was experiencing.

Susan went to her knees beside the cot and put her arm around her child. She tried to withhold her tears as she whispered. “Shhh, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid. Nothing’s going to harm you. Mommy will see to that. Mommy won’t let anything harm you. . . .”

And with her free hand, Susan undid the clasp on her purse and withdrew the small bottle of pills. Still holding and stroking Andrea, she let it fall, with her hopes, into a wastepaper basket.

Later, when Andrea’s sleeping face was peaceful (it knew it had won; there was no further need of the child and so it had released her), Susan kissed her daughter and left quickly.

Outside, the red van was parked, its windows tinted black so that no one could see within.

Coming through the door, Susan saw it. And understood.

It was her time to consent.

She looked up at the sky, memorizing it, breathing it in, looking at what was and had always been, the clouds, the sun, the trees, the people.

And she reached for the handle.

 

*

New York, New York, July 14, 1981—Louis Reed of 312 West End Avenue, Manhattan, has requested that if any of our readers have information as to the whereabouts of his wife, Susan Goodman Reed, now missing from their home for four weeks, they contact him at (212) 555-­4733. A substantial reward is offered.

The Daily News

New York, N.Y.