Sweet Lamb of Heaven (28 page)

Into the dark room came a thin, stooped man. My impulse was to fling my body over Lena, shielding her and keeping her safe with me forever. But I couldn't move.

The thin man turned to look at me, and I recognized him. With his bloodshot eyes and tobacco-stained mouth, his gray, grubby mechanic's workshirt with the franchise logo on the pocket, I recognized him instantly: B.Q.

I felt repulsion, then fear; I knew I couldn't turn onto my side or cover her with my arms, I knew I had to lie just as I was, belly up and exposed. And she was exposed beside me. That was the worst of it.

But next I understood he was a weak and broken person. He had never been a threat to us. He worked for Beefy John, that was all—he drew a paycheck.

“She told you herself,” he said sadly. “But you didn't listen, Mrs. Mrs., she sent me with a message because she can't bring it. She can't say anything anymore. So here it is. True language is the deep magic. As old as time. God of the hills and water. God of the sun and trees.”

He stood at the foot of the bed looking down at Lena, and as he reached out toward her I felt I had to stop him—but instead of touching her he swooped farther down and grabbed something else: Hurt Sheep, which had fallen off the bed and onto the floor.

He picked up the stuffed animal and kept on walking across the motel room, headed toward the window now, where he stood and drew the drapes open.

In the night sky there was a deep-blue light, a kind of royal blue out over the ocean, and stars twinkled in it, the four-pointed stars you might see in paintings. They made me think of the three kings, of the Nativity.

I turned my head and watched him leave by the window. After a couple of seconds I could see quite well, almost as though I was standing at the window myself. He walked out through the glass and into the air and kept going, the sheep tucked under one arm, to where Kay waited, standing on the furling crest of a wave.

“HEY. MAMA. WHERE'S
Hurt Sheep?” asked Lena in the morning. “Hurt Sheep was right exactly here!”

“Maybe under the bed. There's lots of space down there. Remember to check
beneath
things, when you're looking,” I said, brushing my teeth.

Later I helped her and we looked everywhere.

No, I thought, no no no. Come on now.

“Maybe she's gone. Oh! Yeah. I guess she went with Kay,” said Lena, and shrugged, cocking her head.

“What do you mean, love?”

“It's a good place for Hurt Sheep. That's OK, Mom. She went with Kay. I told you before. Remember? In the boat, to the white castle.”

We are sending this message to our daughter Kay's friends, her fellow medical professionals and students, and others who knew her. This is to let you know with our deep sadness, that in the evening of this past Friday, we authorized the medical staff of Brigham and Women's Hospital, to remove, Kay from her ventilator and other support equipment. This was the most difficult decision, a parent can ever make, but as she left a “Living Will” document on her Computer, we know for certain, that it is what she wished.

Please do not reply to this Email, because neither Kay's father, nor I, will continue to use Kay's Email address, which we would view as a violation, of her personal privacy. We used it only to access her many Contacts, which we could not find, in another way. Neither of us uses an Email, and this is the only time, we will send a message with Kay's Email Account. However, regular mail can be sent to us at the address below.

Also below, is listed a charity that was close to Kay's heart, for any gifts made in her memory.

Our deepest thanks to all of you for your visits, cards, flowers, and for the love, you also held for our beloved daughter.

10

I WASN'T MYSELF, BUT THE IMAGE OF ME

I
T'S LATER NOW—MUCH, MUCH LATER.

I was in the shower one evening before Lena's bedtime, just after Kay's death. One of the two rooms we were renting off the lobby—the room that used to be Burke and Gabe's—had a shower curtain in its small bathroom that Lena had pointed out right away. Where our old curtain had borne a pattern of blue flowers, this one had golden sheaves of wheat repeating on a background of creamy white.

I remember noticing, as I stood there letting the water drum down onto my shoulders, the cleanness and freshness of this new shower curtain with its sheaves of wheat. I noticed the sparkling-white quality of the small tiles on the shower walls, how they contrasted with the worn and grimy tiles of our previous motel-room shower stall, frankly a sorry bathroom feature. We were living the high life now, I recall saying to myself.

I washed my hair with plenty of shampoo. I saw no need to rush, since Lena was safe in the room next door with Will, reading to him from her bedtime books. I'd just rinsed out the lather and was looking around for my razor—had I left it on the sink counter?—when I felt a scratch at my ankle and glanced down to see a thin trickle of blood. What had cut me? I must have rubbed my other foot across the ankle—my big toe, on the other foot, had a freakishly long toenail.

Unattractive. I didn't like it. How had it gotten so long without me noticing? I felt embarrassed, despite being alone. I'd clip it right now, as soon as I shaved my legs and stepped out and toweled off.

But wait, the other toenails were long too—they all were, on both feet. They were almost obscene; they looked like a bird's talons, like bird claws stuck onto a mammal. How could Will not have noticed, either? Maybe he'd been too polite to say anything. The front edges of the nails had to be nearly a centimeter long. Beyond disgusting.

I'll get out right away and grab the clippers from the bag next to the sink,
I thought. It was both strange and vile: my toenails had never been so long in my life.
Must be because it's winter,
I told myself,
you wear thick socks all the time, even to bed usually, hating to have cold feet—that must be how you missed it
. I was about to turn off the water when I caught sight of my ankles, my calves. The hairs on them were as long as the toenails, practically.
Jesus,
I thought. How could that have happened?

My gaze hit the wall tiles. I'd thought they were so clean, but now I saw some of the caulked cracks between them contained lines of mildew. I'd get the maids in here first thing tomorrow, I'd get down on my own hands and knees . . . wait. My fingernails were almost as long as the toes. Hard to believe I hadn't cut up my scalp with them while I was lathering. My gaze flicked back to the wall tiles and I saw a line of mildew was
creeping up the grout
.

It was visibly extending itself before my eyes, indeed all over the white surface of miniature tiles on the shower wall mildew was creeping along the lines of caulking. In a grid of right angles a black mold was spiking out farther and farther along the network of tiles, straight angles in every direction.

“What is this,” I said, “what
is
this,” and tore the curtain back without even turning the water off. Wait—the water had flooded, the floor was soaked, and everything was damp. A lightbulb flickered above the vanity. In passing I noticed the tub was full, backed up, the water a sludgy gray, and a rim of scum ran around the tub over the waterline. I panicked, throwing a towel around my middle, tying it over my chest—it too smelled stale, possibly moldy. I pulled the door open and ran out into the room: there were Will and Lena reading on the bed, pillows propped behind them, with a picture book open across their laps.

Relief: she was there. She was safe.

But all around us the room seemed to be changing, though I couldn't put my finger on it at first.

“Goodnight, little house. Goodnight, mouse,” read Lena. Her voice was muffled.

“Goodnight, comb. Goodnight, brush,” read Will. His voice, too, sounded like it was coming through a barrier.

They looked relaxed, as I'd left them, but around the bed they lay on other features shifted and altered. The desk lamp turned off and on rapidly, at irregular intervals; dust piled on surfaces and then seemed to go away, as though either blown or wiped; an object vanished and reappeared somewhere else, a toy on the round table, a glass. They didn't take notice. Through a chink in the drapes I saw flashes of light outside. But it was night, and there shouldn't have been light on that ocean side—so I ran past the foot of the bed to pull the drapes open where the big picture window looked over the cliffs and sea.

And I saw it was day. But then it was night, again, night in the sky and rapidly back to day. Boats appeared on the surface of the water, both far and nearer, then disappeared in an eye-blink, only to reappear elsewhere; the sky switched from morning to midday to evening to night within the space of seconds, and then did it again—this time with different cloud formations, other ships.

“Will, Will! What's happening?” I shrieked, turning to look at him and Lena where they sat with their backs against the headboard, their legs stretched out on the bedspread.

But they seemed to be walled off. When I leaned over the bed to reach out to them something in the air resisted me. I couldn't punch through the space around them, though I tried, increasingly desperate. Lena and Will looked the same as ever but I could see my hair growing in front of my eyes, my hair was getting longer and longer on my shoulders, inch by inch it moved down the front of my shirt, my hairs were visibly lengthening.

My little girl was looking calmly at her picture book, touching the drawings. She looked so normal, just here, just the way she should be. But I—I looked up at myself in the mirror. There was an ominous element to the growth of my hair, the choppy, almost digital-looking growth of the ends, so fast it was visible to the naked eye. There was something badly wrong. I wasn't myself, but the image of me.

Lena's fingernails were normal where they lay on the bottom edge of the pages of her book, bitten off a bit but normal:
Goodnight, nobody,
said the text on the page.

Beneath my own lengthening fingernails a line of dirt crept, growing along with the keratin.

I'd seen this somewhere, I thought, seen this somewhere before.

“OK,” I said, and made myself take deep breaths, count slowly. One of the hypnotic visions or a vivid nightmare—in any case nothing physically real, that was clear from the nails, from the hair—impossibility. I had to figure out the rules of the nightmare; possibly I could control it and wake myself up. I turned my back on Will and Lena and walked to the window again, where birds appeared on the cliff edge and then flicked away. The grass was greener, yes, the ice melted and springtime was here, even the color of the ocean changed from gray to a bluer hue, even the color of the sky.

I heard a voice in the other bedroom and went back through the interior door, reluctant to let Lena and Will out of my sight but pulled there somehow—still, all this was an effect, wasn't it?
An effect,
I remember telling myself as the light kept changing up around me, lights shifted and went from dark to dim to bright. It was disorienting. But part of me also worried that I'd been drugged again and this would turn out to be another kidnapping, so I made sure the chain was on the room door.
Dream or not, lock the door,
I said as I went.
Dream or not, lock the door.

The voice was coming from my laptop, open on the bed where I'd left it during my shower. I came up beside it and I could see the screen: Ned's face. It was a video call, his head in a window on the screen—talking to someone else as I came up, his face in profile, but he turned and looked at me.

“A little fast-forwarding,” he said.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I hit the fast-forward button,” he repeated. “Didn't you see? The kid. Your boy in there. They're not going so fast, are they? You're all alone.”

They were at regular speed, I realized. But I was sped up.

“You're growing old,” said Ned, and smiled again. “See?”

I looked down: new wrinkles on my hands. Old hands. Somehow I'd moved through time alone—and yet still I spoke at normal speed, or else I couldn't have talked to Ned; I still
thought
normally. Didn't I?

“It's impossible,” I said, more to myself than him. “It's just a bad dream.”

“That's what you do with losers, right? Isolate them. You're one of the losers, wifey.”

“But how—why are you doing this? I was cooperating, Ned. I did what you asked, didn't I? I don't get it.”

“I've got the primaries in a few weeks and I need my pretty wife where I want her. A mental case, alone and needy. Makes them do what they're told. Obedient. And a nice little bereavement in the family. Sympathy vote's the icing on the cake. I look good in black. Well. I look good in everything.”

“A bereavement?”

“I took your time from you. You've missed a whole lot. Just take a look.”

Outside the picture window the sun was bright. Gnats and flies hung in the air. There were bunches of grass near the edge of the cliff and they were full green, bowing and dancing in the breeze.

“Ain't we got fun?” said Ned.

Doris Day was singing it in the background.
Not much money, oh but honey, ain't we got fun . . . There's nothing surer: the rich get rich and the poor get children
. . .

I had a cold feeling. I was brittle as bone.

Had he made me a ghost?

I'd disappeared—I'd gone, slipped out of being like water down a drain. Was my girl alone now? Was Will looking after her?

“Like I said, we're going out today,” he said. “We have a public appearance. Believe me, darlin', it's easier if you don't fight it. Don't get yourself all bothered. You won't get anywhere, I promise. You're confused, sure. You're a sick woman. You're weak. But it won't be forever. You don't have to go on that much longer like this. Just do what I say. OK? Put on the gown.”