Primal (18 page)

“Jill’s adopted?”

“No.” He grins. She smiles, too. He turns, proceeds to the
door and swings it open. He says over his shoulder as he steps into the
hallway, “Please come down.” He walks out but does not go down the stairs. He
stops and leans up against the wall to the right of the doorway in the hall by
the edge of the stairs and listens. Did she get up? He waits to hear the
bedspread rustle hoping to hear her foot hit the floor. He wills her out of bed
with every ounce of energy he has. Get up, Alison, he thinks. Darling, get up.
He carefully peeks around the doorway to find her staring directly at him with
a little smile.

“I know you’re standing right there the stair didn’t creak,”
she says.

“How do you know I didn’t fix that floorboard?”

“Did hell freeze over while I was napping?”

“I wouldn’t call three days napping, Rumpelstiltskin. Now,
get your cute ass out of bed and help me deal with my relatives. Just fifteen
or sixteen crushing hugs and the worst will be over.”

Downstairs, in the family room, Hank exchanges a hopeful
look with his mother and mouths “maybe.” Everyone has fallen into their usual
patterns of needling and teasing.

Emily complains to Jill, “I can’t believe you brought
beans.”

“I was happy to,” Jill answers.

“But I was supposed to bring the baked beans,” says Emily
testily.

“Yes, but last time you brought them from a can for god’s
sake, Emily. So, I cooked some homemade.”

“Oh is that so? Well Jill, here, try these - they’re
homemade. Muffins I brought to go with the beans.” Jill leans over and takes a
bite of the muffin Emily holds for her.

“Mmm, actually Emily, these are really good.” She reaches
for the rest of the muffin.

Emily levels her eyes at her sister, “And so good for you
since I made them with my breast milk.” Jill’s eyes widen, her mouth full of
muffin.

“No you didn’t?” Alison says from behind with a smile in her
voice. Emily spins around. And even though Hank had methodically explained to
each one of his relatives a seemingly infinite number of times how the best
response would be for people to just act normally, well, that wasn’t in their
natures. Emily throws her arms around Alison and the rest of the family swarms
her like an agitated hive: sisters, cousins, aunt, uncles.

“Oh, shit.” Hank races over and tries to pull away his
relatives. “Family please back off! Let her breathe!” And they separate.

“Relax, Hank, we’re just happy to see her,” his mom says.

He takes Alison’s hand, “My family - the inspiration for
Velcro. Sorry, honey.”

Alison talks to herself, smile, maintain, fight the rising
panic attack.

“I’m happy to see everyone, too.”

Hank’s mother says, “C’mon, Alison, let’s get a glass of
wine away from the crazies.”

“We are
your
flesh
and blood, Mother,” Emily yells after her.

“Every one of you takes after The Father.”

Alison’s breathing evens out as Carolyn leads her from the
kitchen.

The Father was long gone when Alison joined the Kraft
family. Over time, she has puzzled together pieces of him based on side
comments and a few choice unrepeatable adjectives thrown around to describe the
man who had walked out on the family. Hank told her once the entire extended
family calls him The Father instead of your father or our father because they
don’t really want to claim him. It was no small feat that Carolyn managed to raise
her three kids on her own. The injury of being left shaped Hank. It is why he
is committed to being such a good father, such a good son, husband, and
brother, it made him a family man because little in life mattered more to him
than not being like The Father.

Carolyn takes Alison’s hand and leads her out of the kitchen
and into the quieter family room where they take seats on the sofa. Alison’s
foot begins to shimmy with nervous energy. Her eyes skirt the room. She does
not want to be here, or to fake this, or be expected to talk about it. Their
curiosity is the problem. Their curiosity, understandable as it is, makes her
feel conspicuous and dirty.

“Carolyn, I think I’ll go back upstairs.”

“No you won’t. I have questions,” Carolyn begins and Alison
immediately turns away.

“Don’t ask me, Carolyn. I really don’t…”

Her mother-in-law interrupts forcefully, “What I want to
know is did you see that Jimmy got an A on his report on ants?” Alison hears
this and it feels like a slap across her face even though it wasn’t meant that
way. Did Jimmy tell her this? Did she miss something? Something important to
Jimmy? She clenches her teeth, angry with herself. Even her little boy has
found his way back to life. She wrenches her nerves into submission.

“Did he?”

“And I have to tell you it was hilarious.”

“It was?”

“He needed to present his report orally to the class. So to
remember, he gave each of the different kinds of ants names. Like he called the
carpenter ant Mr. Hammer. It was very cute. And then, he made a poster board
with drawings, and stapled samples of their preferred food all over the board,
and the next morning the classroom was full of, guess what, ants!” Carolyn
laughs aloud and Alison giggles.

As Carolyn jabbers on about Jimmy’s report on ants and Alison
listens, she becomes aware that her hearing has changed. She hears everything
that Carolyn is saying but she also hears whispering all around her. Her eyes
catch the furtive glances of the family, all consciously pretending not to
stare at her - she
is
the accident by
the side of the road. Her senses are oddly heightened. How is it that she can
discern what’s being said in the other room? Even though Jill is at least ten
feet away and surrounded by rowdy kids, Alison hears her every word clearly,
when she leans over toward Aunt Ruth and whispers, “Well, she looks okay, kind
of.” Everyone is faking it. The whispering gets louder. Will I always be
that
woman she wonders? Will people
always see the whole horror when they look at me? Do I need to move somewhere
completely new to be free of it, to not see it reflected in the faces of those
who look at me, to silence the whispering which sounds like a running faucet?
She puts her hand on her chest and realizes she is trying to hide the
bloodstain that is not there. She forces herself to focus on Carolyn’s animated
face, but something is off deep in the core of her. An alarm is ringing. It was
far away at first like a distant church bell carried on a furtive wind, but it
has changed in character, changed in strength. She realizes it is not that
everyone else is busy faking it - pretending that all is well - they believe
all is well, all is healing, all is over. She is the one faking it because all
is not well. It is not over. Is it? Why do I feel like I’m waiting? Waiting for
what? Waiting for a dead man. I missed Jimmy’s A. I missed the goddamn ants and
I cannot get that back.

Monday morning, Alison opens her eyes, pops out of bed,
dresses for work and walks into the kitchen.

“How are my men?”

They look up from their cereal bowls, surprised. Hank has
classical guitar music playing and seeing his wife there in the doorway
accompanied by the soft honeyed chords is overwhelmingly beautiful to him.
Music, Alison, Jimmy, he needs nothing else in the entire world.

“Mom! Are you coming to school?”

“Thought it was time I went back to work. Daddy shouldn’t
have to do everything around here.”

“Sweet.” Jimmy turns back to his Cheerios.

“Yes.” Hank agrees.

Alison walks back into Harbor Hills Elementary School and
heads for the teachers’ lounge to get a cup of coffee. This was her customary
practice. Stepping inside the three-story building, she is acutely aware of the
sights and sounds around her. Primitive systems in her brain that she never
needed before have been activated: she scans rather than sees; she listens
rather than hears, and the scents typically in the air hit her in the face: the
smells of grass on the sneakers in the long grey locker as she passes, as well
as the funky stench of the gym socks crammed inside of them. Her world is
visually crisp, loud, and pungent. She has a new exacting attentiveness to
every detail. The ceiling feels lower than she remembers. Although, she thinks,
maybe I haven’t ever really noticed the ceiling before. Walking briskly down
the hallway toward the lounge she makes a game of stepping on only the black
floor tiles, which makes her feel a little like a child inside the child’s
world and that feels good. Passing the open staircase to the next floor, she
turns the hallway corner and enters the teacher’s lounge. She breathes in.
Someone has dripped coffee onto the pad under the pot and it has burned there.
She smells that, too. The bulletin board is crammed with reminders. She notices
the semicircular ghost streaks left behind from the washcloth that wiped off
the little red table hours ago. She has walked into this room a hundred times
and never noticed those things. She decides to research the brain to learn what
activated all of these detail systems. Must be in the brain stem, she speculates.
It is a little fascinating to be in this new place, to see and hear the world
in such detail. She grabs the coffee pot and a mug from the shelf. Denise and
Gary enter behind her.

Denise cries delighted, “Alison!”

Alison spins around dropping the mug that shatters into
large porcelain chunks when it hits the floor. Aggressively, she holds the hot
glass of the coffee pot in both of her hands unaware of the burning in her
palms. Denise and Gary are both startled by her reaction. A tense instant, and
then Alison’s expression relaxes.

Denise says, “Alison, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh!” Alison puts down the hot pot and looks at her palms.
Red but thankfully not burned.

“We shouldn’t have come up behind you like that.”

Fighting to regain her calm, “Completely my fault; seems I
startle easily these days.”

Gary reaches down and picks up the pieces of the broken mug.
“Are your hands okay?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing.” She thinks, really nothing. Pain is
relative. It is true there are thresholds. She knows what her body can’t take.
A little burn like that? Nothing.

Denise puts her arms around Alison, “We are so glad to have
you back. It wasn’t the same around here.” Denise does this partially to hide
her surprised expression at how different Alison looks. There are a few little
scars on her face from where she was whipped and cut by tree branches and her
complexion is sallow. That shimmer of light that used to come from her eyes is
gone. She feels oddly stiff in Denise’s hug, because physically she hasn’t let
go of it all, yet.

“Your class will be thrilled to see you,” Denise says and
then pulls back and looks into her eyes. “You know, Alison, we’ve been friends
a long time. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but I’m here if you need
to unload on someone.”

“Thank you, Denise.” Alison is touched by the genuine
affection. There is a poignant pause that they both feel emotionally stuck in:
so much to say and nothing really useful. And then, Gary, is Gary…

“Personally, I’m just hoping to not piss you off.” He makes
them both giggle and the fleeting softness that lights Alison’s eyes is like a
sweet reminiscence from another time.

What is so therapeutic for Alison is the speed with which
the kids in her class move on. They gather around to say hello and immediately
complain about the series of gnarly substitutes who attempted to take her
place.

After school, Alison stays late in her classroom hoping to
enhance her newfound peace by a little needed organization. Different
substitutes left behind folders of half-graded tests. Returned homework is
strewn around the tables. Chaos has ruled the classroom. Alison stacks homework
pages by date as she reviews the day in her mind. How did she do? Okay. Not
great. I can’t believe I didn’t remember Jamie Hopper’s name. Ridiculous. I
know that kid inside out. I suppose that’s just a remnant of the exhaustion. It
will take time. At least, everyone keeps telling me so. I’ll feel better when
this classroom is back in order. I think I need to look at the day like a
series of little sips instead of trying to gulp it down. I can rest inside the
little achievements that way: breakfast: check, driving to work: check, morning
classes, etcetera. Alison gives up on the stack of homework in front of her and
walks over to the windowsill where a pile of medieval history projects are
stacked. She moves the top project on castles aside and reveals a poster board
with three models of medieval weapons taped to it, one of which is a knife made
out of aluminum foil. She touches it with one of her fingers. It feels sticky. Sticky
on the blade. Yes, blood sticky. Blood is sticky. Wait, is this sticky or am I
imagining it is sticky? She leans in compelled by the shape and the gleam. She
perceives a blurry image on the shiny silver blade. She squints. The
indistinguishable image pops into terrifying clarity: Gravel’s face. She is
back in the shed and she feels his body tissues give way as she twists the
knife in his back and his hot blood runs hot down her arm. His rage passed into
her body like bacteria - it lives inside of her. Someone is behind her! She
spins. Kent stands there with his dead bugged-out eyes and a gaping hole in his
chest! He walks toward her. Denise does not recognize this woman looking at
her. It is not Alison. Her eyes are wild. Her entire face is contorted. Denise
steps back defensively and gasps, “Alison?” Alison’s expression clears. She
squints. She sees Denise - it is Denise. She tries to pull it together but her
throat closes. She can’t. She is surging with violent energy. Run. She needs to
run. Unglued, she pushes past Denise and out of the room. In a manic frenzy,
Alison runs past a few students who jump quickly out of her way. She looks down
at her feet and mud - there is mud everywhere! Where? Out? She darts for the
back, fire stairwell. Run. Somewhere inside she knows she is home, and then,
also that she is not - not home - not - not safe. She bursts into the
stairwell. Takes two steps, then another two, then slows one, one, one, then
she stops. She stands gathering her wits. She looks around. I’m in school. I’m
in the school. She breathes in forcefully attempting to even out her breathing.
Muscles in her limbs are shimmying from rolling spasms. She gradually sinks
down onto the stair and sits. She rubs her eyes and a few tears fill them. I am
going mad. Or am I already mad? Is Hank right? Her head is heavy and her limbs
feel weighted. How long can I exist on the edge like this? She puts her
forehead down on her knees, her arms fall limply to either side, and she is
perfectly still. Recover. Breathe. She tries to suck air deep into her lungs
and then out slowly, calming. I need help. I must face that. But these
therapists, what they want I don’t. I don’t want to think about it, talk about
it, scrutinize it, or dissect it. I want to forget it. Maybe that’s the
fallacy, that I want what is not possible. Maybe I can’t do this on my own. A
noise. From the landing two floors below, an odd noise, slow, like someone is
creeping. Her head snaps up. Yes. I heard that. No, no I didn’t. It’s nothing.
Someone is creeping up the stairs. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear that. There it
is again. She rises and presses her back up against the wall. She tries to see
down through the opening for the hand railings. Another cautious footfall below
her. Someone is slowly climbing the stairs. Too slowly. She slips out of her
heels and tiptoes in her stocking feet toward the railing to look over. Yes,
she sees something. Something on the railing below, is it a shadow, no a hand.
A man’s hand! Ben’s hand. Twirling around, she rushes back up the stairs out
through the fire door stumbling into the third floor corridor. She sees no one.
A few teachers are in the hall speaking with the assistant principal and they
watch flabbergasted as Alison blasts passed them in her stocking feet carrying
her shoes. At the other end of the hall, where there is an open staircase, she
leaps down the steps two at a time for three flights, and then bursts through
the front door of the school. Shredding her stockings on the asphalt, she races
to her car. In a wild panic, she reaches for her purse. No purse. In the
classroom. Her purse is in the classroom and her keys are in her purse. Oh, her
mind whines loudly, no keys, no keys. She looks frantically around the parking
lot. A number of parents stare wide-eyed and mouths open at Alison shoeless,
coatless, and trembling. Parents exchange worried glances. What should they do?
Alison spins to face the school building. No. I cannot go back. I can’t go in
there. He’s in there. I can’t go back in there. I know. At least that I know.
She takes a step back, another step. She turns her back to the school and runs
away leaving her purse and her jacket back in the classroom racing down the
frigid street.