Mother (60 page)

A new noise came. A melodic, tinkling sound. She stopped breathing, listened hard to the notes. It wasn’t
Teddy Bear’s Picnic
or
Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.
It was something else, something new.
Her eyes firmly shut, she removed the pillow. The melody clarified. It was
The Magic Flute.
The music seemed to come from all around, sweet perfect notes tinkling and twinkling in the air. She saw Mozart’s back as he conducted his invisible musicians. He wore a blue velvet waistcoat and breeches and a black tricorne hat emblazoned with a peace sign.

The music faded and as the room filled with applause, Mozart turned to take a bow, sweeping his tricorne off as he bent. Claire clapped and cried “Encore!” He rose from his bow and looked at her, and there was something amiss. His face was changing. Melting. Like wax. White bone gleamed beneath his flesh and pieces of his face, his neck, his hands, dripped to the floor, sizzling and stinking of sulfur and
Opium.

Mozart’s fleshless skull grinned at her. “You’re never going to leave this place! Never going to leave! Never!” His shrill words were followed by a lunatic cackle, and the composer’s smoking skeleton drew close, teeth clacking with chaotic laughter.

It poked her stomach with its bone-finger, taunting her.

But Claire didn’t respond. Something inside her shifted, like the snap of a branch, and she was no longer afraid. The music faded and Mozart’s bones fell to the floor, but Claire didn’t see anything now except the blank ceiling above her.
 

I don’t care anymore. I’ve lost my mind … and I don’t even care.

She sank into the warmth of her bed, shut her eyes, and disconnected herself from the hissing sounds and acrid smells of burning flesh and perfume. The world around her faded and she slipped into someplace new, someplace safe. Someplace far, far away.
 

Carl didn’t wake up until Babs pulled into their driveway and killed the engine. She’d fretted through the entire drive, worrying about Claire, wondering about the person who’d called her and her sister to Pleasanton. It was all too much.

At least the sac looked peaceful in the early morning light. No one was out setting up for the potluck yet; it wouldn’t even begin until 11 a.m., and she was glad because she might be able to get some sleep.

Carl stretched and yawned. “You should drive all the time, Babs. I slept like a baby.” He got out of the car and headed for the house. Babs exited too, then paused, and punched Claire’s number in. It went straight to voicemail and she hung up, then, girded herself and called Prissy.
 

“Hello?”
 

Priscilla sounded like she’d been asleep but Babs didn’t apologize for waking her. “It’s me. I just wondered how Claire is feeling this morning. She’s not answering her phone.”

“Oh, she’s fine now,” Prissy said. “And how are you?”
 

The chill had left her voice. Evidently, Babs was forgiven. “She wasn’t fine earlier? What happened?”
 

“She was having hallucinations,” Prissy said. “I was scared to death for her, poor thing, so I called Dr. Hopper. He came in the middle of the night. I was so relieved.”

“What did he say?”

“He gave her some medicine to calm her down and says he thinks she might be having a psychotic break.” Prissy paused. “I’m not even sure what that is. Do you happen to know?”

You know exactly what it is
. That’s what Babs wanted to say, but she refrained. “I have no idea, but it sounds terrible.”

“Yes. I’m so worried, I’m beside myself. I’m just sick from worrying. My head aches. All this stress - I guess it just put me right to sleep.”

Babs put on her friendliest voice. “It must have, since you haven’t looked up his diagnosis yet.”
 

Prissy hesitated. “Dr. Hopper said I was too exhausted and gave me half a Xanax. You know what those do to me. Out like a light. At least I had an hour of rest.”

“Is he coming back to see Claire again this morning?”

“What? Oh, the doctor! Yes, unless he has an emergency or something. But he told me exactly how to take care of her. After all, I
am
a nurse. He has full confidence that I can handle the situation. It’s best for everyone.” She sighed. “Between Carlene and Frederick, I’m very busy. Despite everything, I did make my special homemade potato salad for the potluck.”

The last time Prissy had made potato salad, she’d forgotten to refrigerate it, and more than one neighbor had come down with the trots. Babs hadn’t had the nerve to rat Prissy out back then, but today, she would warn people to avoid it. She smiled to herself. “I’d like to visit Claire. Perhaps I can stay with her while you’re seeing to the potluck?”

Prissy’s voice fluttered like a palm frond. “I- I’ll ask the doctor if it’s okay for her to have visitors. I’ll let you know.”

“When does Jason return?”

“Oh, I doubt he can even leave Colorado for hours yet. I watched the weather last night and Denver had a big snowstorm. I don’t even know if they’ll let a little plane fly today.”

Babs knew all about the storm. “I hear it’s clearing.”

“You know about it?”

“I had the radio on.”

“Oh,” said Prissy. “Well, I hope he can get home. I don’t how he’s going to take the news.”

“I’m sure once you explain her condition, he’ll handle things and find a good doctor to help her.” She thought of Steffie Banks, knowing she’d arrive within a few hours.
Thank heaven. Prissy’s going to have a hissy about that.
Babs smiled to herself.

“No,” said Prissy. “I’ve already told him about her mental state. I was referring to the news that they won’t be able to move out as they planned.” She clucked her tongue. “Who
knows
how long they’ll have to stay here! I just hope I’m strong enough!”

Prissy was trying to sound disappointed, but Babs heard something that sounded an awful lot like triumph in her tone.
 

“Coming in, Babs?” Carl called from the front door.

“Just a minute.” Babs said goodbye to Prissy then looked up Gerald Hopper’s office number and punched it in, telling the nurse it was an emergency.
 

Within three minutes, Hopper came on the line. “What’s your emergency, Mrs. Vandercooth?”

“I’m not sure if I have one or not. Did you diagnose Priscilla Martin’s daughter as having a psychotic break?”

There was a lengthy pause before Hopper spoke. “I can’t discuss my patients. Surely you understand.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor, I do understand. I’m simply concerned about the girl. Can you at least tell me if I may visit her later today?”

The pause was even longer. “I prescribed a sedative, but … I think a brief visit would be … okay.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll need to check with Priscilla, though. As a nurse, she’ll have a better idea if it’s appropriate.” The man sounded like he was in pain as he searched for words. “Yes, I’d have to say you need to ask her.”

“If Claire is so bad off, why isn’t she in the hospital?”

“I can’t discuss-”

“Prissy didn’t want her to go, did she?”

Hopper’s silence told her everything she wanted to know.
 

Shattered Thoughts

The storm had moved through so quickly that patches of blue were showing between the dark clouds and spitting snow as Jason boarded the small commuter jet. He thought about pulling out a journal and reading during the flight, but decided it would only add to his stress. He popped a couple of Tums and pulled out his phone. He couldn’t call Claire, but he could open his Kindle app and read the latest John Sandford novel.
 

Most of the time, Fred Martin felt like a mind trapped in a rusted machine that was on its way to the junkyard; but having palmed the last three tranquilizers that Prissy’d given him, he could already feel his body and mind beginning to function better. This wasn’t news to him, he’d done it before - simply opened the capsules and let the powder flutter onto the blanket - and felt clearer within a matter of hours. He knew exactly what was going on, what Prissy was doing to him, but until now, he’d rarely had reason to skip the pills. He’d long ago given up any hope of a tolerable existence, and the pills at least allowed him a reprieve from the assault of awareness, from the deadly boredom. He glanced at the dark television. Prissy had unplugged it two months ago as punishment when he’d refused a meal and never plugged it back in. She’d removed all his books and magazines six months ago for another infraction. At that point, the pills had become his friends. He was certain she’d recently upped the dosages of whatever she was feeding him, so she could keep him in a near-vegetative state.
 

But now, he felt it was important to keep his mind clear. Though his body was mostly broken, he at least had his wits.
 

He’d heard screaming last night. It brought back terrible memories, memories long sublimated to that drugged haze Prissy had induced for more than two decades. Timothy, screaming. He’d gone to his room to see what was wrong and seen him tied to his own bed, naked and blindfolded. Priscilla hovered over him, something in her hands. He crept closer, and saw she had a string tied to one of her fingers. Fred stared, following the line of string to its end. Mortified, he saw it was tied around their son’s genitals.
 

Prissy was giggling, tugging his privates this way and that, the mistress of her own perverse puppet show. As Tim’s privates leapt and bounced, she taunted him, telling him he was dirty, that only
she
could determine the activity of his “boy parts.”

Furious, Fred had grabbed Prissy by the shoulders and shaken her, hard.
 

She’d whirled, eyes on fire, and he’d expected her to lash out. But she didn’t. Instead, she’d done something Fred had never - not in all the years he’d known her - seen her do before: She’d wept, apologized, and fled the house.

 
Fred had tried to talk to Timothy. Even then, the boy defended his mother. The poor child was humiliated, traumatized. He’d begged Fred not to tell anyone what he’d seen; told him nothing like that had ever happened before. But Fred knew better … and he knew he wasn’t going to keep quiet about it.
 

He should have called the authorities that night, but he hadn’t. For Timothy’s sake, Fred decided to first speak privately with his old friend, Curtis Hocking, a retired cop who might advise him on how to handle the situation with minimal damage.

Prissy came home after midnight and locked herself in their bedroom. Fred had slept in Tim’s room, guarding him until he could have Prissy removed from their lives. The next morning, Fred sent Tim off to school without allowing Prissy to even tell him goodbye. Anxious, Fred phoned Curtis, but his wife said he was out of town on a fishing trip and wouldn’t be back until later that afternoon. Fred busied himself cleaning out the gutters, trying to keep a calm, clear mind. He was still in shock and though he’d dreaded the conversation, he was eager to get it off his chest - and eager to get Prissy away from their children.

He’d never had that conversation with Curtis. An accident on the ladder had prevented it, and since that day, he’d been here in this room, unable to walk or speak. He could never prove Prissy had been behind the accident - but on an instinctual level, he knew. Over the years, he’d tried and tried to recall the day’s events, but he’d always come up blank. One moment he’d been on the ladder, and the next … he was here, in this wheelchair.
It was her. She did this to me, to keep me quiet.
And it had worked.
 

 
Now, something was happening to his daughter. He needed to help her, but getting out of this room was impossible. Prissy kept the door locked at all times and nothing he tried would get it to open. And he’d tried everything; there was no way around a double deadbolt.
 

He sat straighter in his wheelchair then pushed himself to the sliding door and slowly opened it to let fresh air into the stale, dark room. His body might be a broken-down machine beyond repair, but his mind was still as sharp as a razor’s edge, and if Prissy hurt their daughter, he’d make damn sure she paid for it. He began flexing his arms and hands, exercising his muscles.
 

Priscilla Martin checked herself in the mirror by the front door and repinned her bright yellow snapdragon brooch so it didn’t disappear into the pale yellow snapdragons in her custom-knitted sweater.
Much better.
She smiled, saw a speck of red lipstick stuck to a front tooth, and quickly scrubbed it off. Satisfied, she backed away until she could see her entire outfit. The new bright yellow pants, brighter than any of the pastel pants she owned, went perfectly with the pin on her sweater. She felt bold today, ready to face the world.

Outside, it was clear and chilly, with a brisk breeze. She looked out at the cul-de-sac and saw several neighbors setting up tables for the Spring Potluck, but not many were out yet. It was less than ninety minutes until the potluck began - people were not taking their duties seriously enough.

She looked over her flower beds, pleased with the snapdragons’ growth, then almost began her walk to check in with the neighbors, but decided to set up her own table first.
A good example is the finest form of leadership.
 

Hoping Jason would arrive to help her, she walked up the driveway and unlocked the big potting shed to fetch the card table and chair. She had more seedlings growing now - marigolds and zinnias. They were just beginning to sprout under the big skylight. The shed was the best thing Frederick Martin had ever created, bar none.
 

“Timothy?” she said. “Are you here? I wish you could help me move this big heavy table.” She sighed. “You know, it was very selfish of you to take your own life like that. I hope we can get you into heaven when it’s time for us to go. Angelheart, I love you so much that if I can’t talk the Lord into letting you in, I will go to Hell at your side. That’s what a good mother does.”