The Better to Hold You (25 page)

The night before Thanksgiving Hunter’s father called and announced that he and his second wife were going to drop by to “use the house” for a few days. It was not clear whether or not they were expecting to join us for dinner, although Hunter did invite them, without asking me.

“They’ll probably just drink, darling; you know them. And if you could just stick a bird in the oven, you’d still have all the lovely yammy side dishes to yourself.”

“Hunter, even if I were well enough to deal with the idea of a big bird, we’re talking about tomorrow. There won’t be any turkeys left.”

“Sure there will; I ordered one.”

And so it came to pass that at nine A.M. Thanksgiving day, I was hefting a turkey carcass into my shopping wagon when I saw Kayla, the waitress.

She was even prettier than I remembered, in a shaggy green wool sweater and faded jeans, her strawberry blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail. I glanced at her and then away, but not before I’d caught her looking at me, first with surprise and then with a fierce, narrow-eyed hatred.

As she came closer, I saw that there was a thin red scar on her mouth which I hadn’t recalled seeing before.

“You tell that bastard to keep away,” she hissed. “If I see one more dead animal on my front door, you tell him I will call the police.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, but I put my hand on my stomach as I said it.

“I don’t care if Dan finds out anymore. You tell him that. I don’t care if you know and Dan knows or the whole damn town knows, but you tell Hunter to keep the fuck away from me.”

My mouth was dry and I couldn’t seem to get words past the lump in my throat. “What are you—”

Kayla leaned closer to me, and her pretty green eyes were awash with tears. “He’s sick, that’s what he is,” she said. “And you’re sick to be with him.”

She walked away, just another woman who’d meant nothing to my husband, and I closed my eyes for a moment because suddenly the little supermarket was way too bright.

“Are you all right, miss?” The boy in the green apron was looking at me with alarm, and that made me straighten up.

“I’m fine,” I said. I left my turkey in the wagon and walked out to the car.

I drove home as if I were eighty-six and extremely fragile, slowing around corners, braking whenever I thought I saw a chipmunk about to race across the road. I have had a shock, I thought, and I am pregnant. I must be very gentle with myself. With my hands at exactly the ten and two o’clock positions on the steering wheel, I made my way past vast landscaped horse farms and mobile homes decorated with cornucopias and Indian corn and cardboard turkeys dressed as Pilgrims. I cautiously cornered a bend which, a month ago, had been lush with a dangerous screen of foliage but was now winter-bare. I drove past the patchy brown grass of dairy farms with their ramshackle silos and red-painted barns, and I nearly ran over a marmalade tabby sitting in the road because I was driving so slowly she must have thought I was going to stop and just wait for her to move. Then I pulled into our driveway, parked the car at an acute angle, and walked out without closing the door.

“Is that you, darling?”

“Depends which darling you mean,” I said, following Hunter’s voice into the kitchen.

“Did you get the turkey already?”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Well, never mind, we’ll just have lots of leftovers.” Hunter gave me a sort of blithe half-smile and shrugged. “Dad just called. Turns out he’s not coming after all. Something about an invitation he’d forgotten at the country club.” Hunter was making a pot of coffee in the kitchen. He was wearing an olive green wool sweater, almost an exact match to the one Kayla had been wearing. “Never mind. It just saves us the bother of having to put up with the old sot and his atrocious other half.” Hunter raked the dark hair back from his forehead where it had flopped forward, a self-conscious gesture, intended to charm. He’d been very charming these past three and a half weeks, since the test had come back positive.

“I just saw your girlfriend at the supermarket.”

“What are you talking about?”

I turned away and walked up the stairs.

“Fine.” Hunter turned to go back to his coffee, and for some reason this infuriated me so much I found myself returning to the kitchen. There he stood, the guilty party, calmly reading a newspaper and sipping from his cup, and here I stood, the offended party, heaving in indignation, utterly ignored.

“Please don’t just stand there panting,” Hunter said, without looking up. “And don’t make a scene. Just go away, calm down, and come back when you’ve gotten yourself together.” I stared at him.

“Don’t you even care what happened to make me mad?”

Hunter flipped a page of the newspaper, folded it, and then looked briefly up. “Frankly, no. You know me, Abs. I don’t like big scenes. We talked about the other-women thing; we handled it. I don’t really think it’s fair for you to go have a cow about this now.”

“Not fair? Not fair? Kayla says you’ve been harassing her—”

Hunter slammed the cup down, his dark eyes utterly cold with rage. “Don’t start with that one. She has her own crazy scenario going, and I don’t want any part of it. Just ignore her, Abra. It’s what I plan to do.”

“Are you still seeing her?”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer.”

“Are you?” He read the paper as if I had ceased to make any more sound in the room. In the bleak, almost wintry light, everything seemed more ghastly and dilapidated, every vase a receptacle for ashes, every window an unlidded eye. I had gotten used to the melancholy decrepitude of the house, but now I felt that it was part of the problem. Bad furniture, bad karma, bad vibes. I wanted to hurl something against a wall.

“Answer me, Hunter.”

“Oh, Abra.” He sounded utterly bored and disgusted. “Just grow up.”

“I just want to hear you say you haven’t seen her since that night.” It was insane: I felt anger, but the tone of my voice was pleading.

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now, Abra. In the state you’re in, you’ll just twist everything around. It’s probably hormonal.”

Every word he said increased my anguish. I was suddenly very aware of my pregnant state, of how few people had ever really loved me, of how much my life hinged on this relationship being okay. If it were not, then my sacrifice of my internship, my investment of time, my position with my parents that my marriage was healthy, my pregnancy, were all mistakes.

“Please, just tell me you haven’t been seeing her. Look me in the eye and tell me.”

My husband looked at me, and what he said was, “I will not be dictated to.”

I began to cry. Maybe it was hormonal, but I couldn’t stop it.

“Please, Hunter.”

“Oh, Abra,” he said, putting the paper down at last. “Have some pride.” If he had held me then, I would probably still have buckled. But he walked away, and it was Thanksgiving, so I packed a small bag and left for my mother’s.

My mother, who had spent the past three years begging me to leave Hunter, was not home when I got there. I had managed to forget that she was going to be in Antigua until I rang the front doorbell and discovered the sweet, moon-faced young woman who had been left in charge.

“Hi,” she said when she opened the door. “I’ll bet you’re Abra?” She held out a pale, plump hand bearing three silver occult rings. “I’m Pagan.”

“How did you know who I was?” But I already knew. Pagan had all the earmarks of a Piper LeFever groupie—clever eyes, interest in the supernatural, cat T-shirt.

“Your mother said you’d be dropping by to check on Pimpernell and a few of the other sick ones. She also mentioned that she wouldn’t be surprised if the holidays brought out the worst in your husband this year.” The gray eyes were apologetic.

“Sounds like my mother. And, strangely enough, here I am. Is the guest bedroom free?”

“She said to take the master suite. I’ve just moved into the guest room.”

“There isn’t another free room in the house? What about the green bedroom?”

Pagan shrugged. “Not fit for humans. I have a lot of musical equipment set up right now, but if you want me to move—”

“No, but thanks.”

My mother’s huge, circular bed had been left strewn with duvets, newspapers, magazines, discarded clothing, jewelry, and cats. For some reason, most of the felines seemed to react badly to me, hissing and arching away. Only a little brown Burmese with a strange fungal growth on his face didn’t seem fazed by my presence. He sharpened his claws on the headboard and watched me as I moved around the room.

It took me an hour to organize things and to strip the bed of the faintly musty-smelling sheets and blankets. Feeling like I had to make the effort to be festive, I put on the crushed velvet medieval dress my mother had bought for my birthday and went down to the kitchen. I had started a load of laundry in the kitchen and managed to find a casserole dish when Pagan knocked tentatively on the door.

“I hope I’m not disturbing—wow, you look great. What a dress!”

“My mother’s idea. I don’t suppose you feel like some anti-Thanksgiving dinner, do you, Pagan?”

“Actually, since you’re here—I was going to go tomorrow for just a few hours, but since you are here—” The girl, whom I now realized was really no more than twenty, began to blush.

“Go on,” I said, throwing back the long, trailing sleeves of my gown to grate some green mold off the cheddar.

“I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to help with the cats.”

“Don’t bother.” I looked up and smiled at the young girl, who clearly had somewhere better to be. “I can manage for a couple of days.” I placed the casserole in the preheated oven and closed the door.

Pagan’s smile was radiant. “Oh, you are great. Thanks so much for this, I volunteered before Griff and I—”

“Go on before I change my mind.” And then, just as I heard the front door slam, I realized I hadn’t asked for any instructions regarding the animals. I raced after Pagan, found out who needed close monitoring and who didn’t eat dry food, and returned, only to discover I had neglected to put the grated cheese in the casserole. As there seemed to be no potholders, I used a towel to bring the pot down.

I was about to put the casserole back when the phone rang, but by the time I found the receiver under a pile of old bills whoever was calling had hung up. I returned to my dinner, and, in one of those priceless maneuvers you do when your mind is really a hundred miles away, I put my hands right on that metal dish, straight from the 450-degree oven. The pain was so surprising, I gasped and dropped the dish. I was so discombobulated that it took me a full moment to realize that my elegant medieval sleeves had just swept over the lit burner. My sleeves were on fire.

For a moment I just stared at my hands in their nimbus of flames, and then I screamed and beat at them, and finally I remembered to roll until the flames were out.

Hands. My hands. How badly were they—? Bad. Breathe slowly. Assess the damage. The adipose tissue was exposed; white fat bubbled over the blistered palms. No fabric melted that I could see, but a mess of charred tissue, blackened like bacon at the edges, and, worst of all, no pain. No pain meant serious trouble.

“Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. Help. Oh, Christ, somebody, help!” But the front door was closed, and my hands were in no shape to be opening doorknobs. Think, think. The phone. I knocked the receiver off the hood and bent down, trying to use my nose to dial 911. No good, buttons too small. Elbow? Worse. Concentrate, don’t panic. I kicked off my shoes and jabbed with my big toe. Please, 911, please.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“Oh, God. I’ve burned my hands, third-degree burns, there’s no one here.”

“Okay, stay calm now. Do you know your name?”

“Abra Barrow, the Beast Castle Animal Refuge.” My teeth were chattering.

“Good, I’ve got a unit coming. Are you feeling faint or dizzy?”

“No. No sign of shock yet, but … this is third-degree, full-thickness burns.”

“Okay, okay, stay calm. My name is Helen, Abra. Are you a doctor?”

“I’m a veterinarian.” Was a veterinarian. Oh, God, my hands, my hands.

“Good, okay, the unit is saying they are only three miles from you now. Is there anyone we can get to come to the hospital for you?”

Oh, God, who could they get? Not Hunter, not my mother, not my father. I had no one.

“Miss Barrow? Abra? Are you there? I asked if—”

“I don’t know.” I started to cry.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s someone. A friend, perhaps? Is there a friend who can meet you there?”

“Red Mallin.”

“Can you spell that so I can look up the number, Abra?”

“Red Mallin, Wildlife Removal Operator.” I heard the sound of footsteps. What was the operator’s name? I couldn’t remember. “I think they’re here,” I said.

“All right then, Abra, you hold on, and I’ll get that Red Mallin for you.”

The emergency medical technicians came in wearing white uniforms and huge black boots. There was one white and one black, just like in the TV programs. I looked into their young male faces and had the strangest desire to just close my eyes and surrender to their care. But I stayed upright. “I need an IV of lactated ringers,” I said to the black one. “Are you an EMT or a paramedic?”

“My name is Joe, Abra. Try to relax.” I stared at his hands as he worked over me.

“I need, I think I need a surgical debridement …”

“Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine,” said the white one. I wondered if I had insulted him by asking his partner if he was a paramedic first. And then something cool flowed through my veins and I closed my eyes.

I was sitting in the examining room when Red burst in. I watched his eyes as he took in the scene: the sterile, pale hospital green walls and strong overhead lights which make everything, even childbirth, look so much more dire; me looking wild and disheveled in my crushed velvet Witch of Camelot dress, ruined hands held out as if in supplication. For a moment, he looked as if he were going to cry. Then he came forward and knelt at the floor by my feet.

“Jesus, Doc, you okay?”