In Dark Corners (21 page)

Syd just nodded agreeably, while screaming silently:
I do not believe this
, her pulse racing, anguish knotting her stomach muscles, the palms of her hands slick with perspiration. Rob really thinks he's reading to Richie.

After an awkward moment of being stared at curiously by her son, Syd suggested in a calm tone, "Well, you go ahead out to play, Rob, I'll finish reading to Richie. It's been a while. He and I
need
to spend some quality time together anyhow this morning. Okay?"

Rob looked hard at her for a moment, hands on hips, a kind of semi-defiant posture; but eventually the boy relented, shrugged his shoulders, smiled broadly, and nodded. "Sure, Mom, that's fine. Richie will probably like that better—you're a terrific reader." He turned and darted off outside, slamming the kitchen screen like always.

Frozen in place, tears rolled down Syd's cheeks, the bizarre reality of the situation clutching and squeezing her like a giant invisible hand. God Almighty, she swore silently to herself. Rob had been actually reading the Maurice Sendak book to Richie this morning…but his five-year-old brother had died in that car crash over four months ago.

Richie was
gone
, buried at Tulocay Cemetery.

"God," she repeated aloud, all the hurt flooding back, reminding her of the chilling hysteria lingering at the edge of her consciousness, threatening to overwhelm her self control. Ten minutes passed as Syd remained standing where Rob had left her. Then, she sighed deeply and blew her nose with a tissue, the simple physical act stirring her from her self-pitying lethargy. "Get a grip, girl."

She wiped her eyes with another tissue and smiled wryly. Boy, I am really something. I actually thought I'd pulled myself together, and everything was back to normal around here. Now look at me.

Well, it's time to focus on Rob. Obviously he needs to go back to see Dr. Morrison for more counseling. But what could've brought this on at this time? she asked herself. Syd shook her head sadly, puzzled by the sudden appearance of her son's delusion.

Then, she recalled how Richie had always wanted to tag along with Rob and his friends, play soccer, but was usually left behind by the older boys—too young, too klutzy. Rob had always seemed to be a little sheepish about leaving Richie behind. Maybe the guilt had grown, preyed on his mind since the accident, built up to
this
.

Dr. Morrison would have to sort it out.

Not feeling like working, Syd made herself another cup of tea and sat back down at the kitchen table. Maybe we should
all
go in to see Dr. Morrison as a family, she thought. Make it easier for Rob.

***

Sandoval slipped quietly into the house just before 3:00 p.m., after taking off early from the hospital, stopping to pick up a dozen long-stemmed white roses from the florist—Sydney's favorite—and a bottle of mum's from the Liquor Barn—his favorite. Today was their tenth wedding anniversary. A little celebration would cheer Syd up, he thought hopefully, setting down the two surprises on the hall table next to the stack of unopened mail.

She had rebounded from the aftermath of the accident quite well, except for the last few days, when she seemed to be really preoccupied about something. He was afraid she might be slipping back into her post-accident depression. Morrison and the drugs had been a big help, but Sandoval knew relapses were not uncommon. He often found himself slipping back, dwelling on that fateful night, blaming himself as the driver of their Infinity SUV—

Stop!

With a mental effort, Sandoval forced all the negative stuff from his mind.

This afternoon they would forget all about the tragedy, he told himself, tiptoeing down the hall to her office. Yep, they'd concentrate on the positive. He pushed open the door, planning on sneaking up and kissing Syd on the back of her neck while she concentrated at her computer station—

The chair was empty, the computer shut down.

What's going on? he wondered, hurrying down the hall to the kitchen. Syd was really disciplined, her WASP work ethic—she didn't take days off from work.
Never
.

"Hey, sweetheart, what's going on?" Sandoval asked, finding his wife sitting on a kitchen chair, her elbows on the table, deep in thought.

She glanced up and smiled, shaking her head, but not answering.

"Are you okay, Syd?" he asked, growing concerned now with her uncharacteristically listless poise and a very pale, drained face.

Syd sucked in a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine, hon," she replied. "It's Robert—"

"Our son?" he asked, a little too loudly.

She nodded again, getting up, and hugging him.

Sandoval kissed her cheek. "What about Rob?" he asked cautiously in a softer voice, pushing her back gently to arm's length, searching her face.

"Right now he's outside playing," Syd began to explain, gazing out the kitchen window, as if searching for her son. "He went out to play again after lunch…" Her voice trailed off as she turned back to face her husband.

Even though stunned by her words, Sandoval forced a smile of encouragement, and nodded for her to continue.

"Well, this morning, I found Rob reading to Richie in their bedroom," Syd whispered in a choked voice, her eyes beginning to tear up. She paused, took a deep breath, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, cleared her throat, and spelled it all out. "Rob
thinks
his little brother is alive, still sharing his bedroom. I don't know why, maybe he feels guilty about always leaving Richie behind before the accident. Anyhow, I think we need to contact Dr. Morrison for some more counseling…I don't know, perhaps it would be best if we all go as a family," she suggested, looking at her husband questioningly. "I know it's busy right now at the hospital, but—"

Sandoval answered before she finished, having regained back some of his composure. "Sure, no problem," he agreed, slipping into the confident tone he used with his surgery patients. "I'll call Pete Morrison right now, get us an appointment scheduled for as soon as possible."

"—Maybe you and I going together with him would make it a lot easier for Rob," Syd added, finishing her thought before he interrupted.

Madre de Dios
! Sandoval swore silently, fighting desperately to hang on to his calm facade, as he stared at his wife. She talks like Rob is alive, that he survived the crash. She has really relapsed, part of the denial back. But why now?

Then he remembered that right after the accident, she'd experienced overwhelming remorse about cheating the
older
boy, because she'd spent so much time with Richie, trying to make up for the younger brother always getting left behind. She'd felt she neglected Rob.

Guilt must've been preying heavily on her mind all this time.

Oh, man…Sandoval swept his wife up in his arms, hugged her tightly, then kissed her. "I'll call Pete in a minute," he promised, leading her into the hallway to the table, trying to momentarily distract her from the morbid delusion.

"I brought you something special, Sydney," he whispered, handing her the white roses…then holding up the bottle of champagne. "This is for a little celebration later tonight."

"Oh,
no
, today is our wedding anniversary!" Syd said, smiling sheepishly, her cheeks blushing with color, her eyes lighting up. "
You
are the one always forgetting. Not me. And you're home early, too. Oh, Tony." She kissed him passionately, clutching his body tightly against hers, then whispering, "You're really something, you know."

"Maybe we can make this a
real
celebration tonight," Sandoval suggested, wiggling an invisible cigar and lifting his eyebrows in a silly imitation of Groucho Marx's famed gesture.

Syd answered with faked reluctance, "Well…I don't know,
maybe
." Then she winked lewdly.

***

Later that night, they had a glass of champagne and relaxed, something they'd rarely accomplished together during the last four months since the accident.

Syd had worn a flimsy shorty nightgown that matched the color of her shoulder-length, auburn hair, her full breasts and dark pubic V easily visible through the sheer garment. An apparel item Sandoval found to be exceptionally arousing.

They made love.

It was quick, wet, and wild, reminding him of their opportunistic episodes of lovemaking back when they were dating, and he was still a resident at UCSF—once even standing up in a linen closet at the hospital when Syd stopped by late one night for a short visit—their frantic, youthful passion tonight a blessing, blotting out the negative memories stirred by Syd's relapse.

They lay together in post-coital bliss, whispering back and forth about the future, Syd suggesting they might even want to try for another child—after all she was only thirty-six, not too close to the high risk years yet…

Then, they made love again, slow and sweet, tender and thoughtful, gracefully, like two accomplished tango dancers, both completely familiar with the routine, anticipating their partner's moves.

It was indeed an enchanting evening, almost healing the rift created between them by the accident.

Sandoval fell into an exhausted deep sleep.

***

It was still dark, but he awakened with a start in a clammy sweat, his heart thumping rapidly, his pulse racing.

The clock on the nightstand read: 3:15 a.m.

Something was dreadfully wrong—he felt it.

Sandoval strained and listened for a moment, hearing nothing really, the darkened room absolutely silent…not even a hint of Syd's normally loud rhythmic breathing.

Concerned for her welfare, he rolled over, sliding his hand across the smooth, cool sheet reaching out for her—

Nothing, not even a crease.

And not even a tiny dent in the pillow on that side of the bed.

Syd had not slept in her bed tonight.

Stunned, Sandoval moaned aloud with the pain of the rapidly dawning realization, unsuccessfully fighting back the tears. He wept, realizing Syd hadn't slept in their bed for over
four
months. His wife was gone, just like the two boys.

Sydney had died in the accident.

"
Madre de Dios
!" he murmured to himself, finally sitting up, overwhelmed now with remorse. He'd never spent enough time with Sydney, or the boys either—always too damned occupied with work and the hospital to think about his family….

I'm the one who's been in denial, Sandoval finally admitted to himself, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.

He struggled to his feet, stumbled into the bathroom, and stared at the drawn dark face in the mirror, as if really looking at himself for the first time in a long while. He made his medical diagnosis: "
Hombre
, you look like the tail end of hard times."

And finally a prescription: "Right now, what you need is a drink."

***

A few minutes later in the kitchen, Sandoval found the tequila in the back of the liquor cabinet. He poured himself three fingers neat, no ice, no lime, no salt. Then he sat down at the table and sipped the raw liquor, thinking clearly for the first time in months.

Yes, they were
all
gone.

Syd being here was just some kind of wishful thinking oh his part—a second chance to make up for his neglect. He'd brought her back
somehow
, made love to her, everything during the evening seeming so real—

Suddenly he flashed back to his last year at UCSF, recalling something the Chief of Anesthesiology, Dr. Hurley, had said during a lecture:
The barrier between life and death is as easy to cross as counting backwards during surgery
…something he hadn't really thought about since residency. At the time he'd considered it to be little more than an admonition about being extremely careful with anesthesia during surgery…But now, he wasn't so sure what it meant. Of course there were many recorded near-death experiences, people coming back. But what about people who died four months ago—could
guilt
bring them back momentarily across the barrier?

The thought was mindboggling to a scientific mind.

He shivered and knocked back the last of his tequila.

Then, Dr. Antonio Sandoval absently picked up and unrolled to the front page an unread Napa
Register
resting on the kitchen table…a newspaper dated four months ago and turning yellow and brittle from age:

TRAGEDY CLAIMS LOCAL FAMILY

"
Funkytown is the bizarre bazaar,

weirder than a deep emerald sky
…"

—Anonymous street musician

The woman had disappeared.

Tim McHenry had cut afternoon classes for a week to roam Telegraph Avenue south of the campus in hopes of catching another glimpse of the street artist he had first seen after lunch on Monday. But she was gone, her image dim and vague, like the morning after memory of a dream. Tim wasn't even sure why he found her so fascinating. He wasn't interested in art; and he'd paid little attention to other women since he and Carolyn had been married two years ago. Nevertheless, he was unable to resist the compulsion to see the woman again; and, after failing to spot her all week, he'd been sure she'd show up Friday afternoon as the weekend tourist trade began to pick up.

But no luck.