The Things That Keep Us Here (27 page)

“Compared to you, I do.” Kate dropped her spoon into her bowl with a clatter.

Peter winced. “What was Barney doing on the front porch?”

“I don’t know,” Ann said. “I thought you left him in the garage last night. Are you hungry?” She picked up a dish. “Peter?”

He blinked. The motion made his eyes ache.

Ann was looking at him oddly. “Girls.” She sounded as though she was talking from a far distance. “I want you both to go outside. Take Jacob with you, okay?”

He blinked, another blindingly painful process, and saw he was alone with Ann.

“Honey, are you all right?” she asked.

He was fine. Of course he was. He lifted his arms to her. Why didn’t she come to him? She wasn’t stepping forward and placing her head against his chest. He looked down and saw that his arms had not moved but lay stiffly by his sides.

FORTY-TWO

A
NN STOOD TREMBLING BY THE KITCHEN SINK, RUNNING
icy water over her wrists and splashing it over her face, as if she could wash away the facts. One look at Peter standing there in the kitchen doorway and she’d felt uneasy. There was something worrisome about the color in his cheeks. Then he’d leaned against the doorjamb, looking confusedly from Kate to Maddie, and she’d known with a terrible certainty. My God. The monster was in Peter.

It had lurked inside him, biding its time, just like that alien that had coiled hidden until everyone’s guard was down before bursting free from that fellow’s abdomen while everyone backed away in horror.

Now the monster had slithered in without their knowing and crept around unchecked for hours. Their children had breathed it in, spent all night with it. She and Peter had made love; he’d held her until dawn. Could the monster be inside her, too? Then what? Who would take care of the girls and Jacob, then?

She had to keep her head clear. She sluiced another wave of water over her face and let it run dripping down the front of her shirt. She was no good to anyone if she didn’t get moving. She reached for a dishtowel, then slowly uncurled her fingers. Nothing was safe—the counters, the dishes, the pillows, the doorknobs, everything they’d packed into the minivan. How could she possibly clean it all?

She had to focus. Peter needed her. He’d barely been able to make it up the stairs. She’d hurried the girls out the door as he trudged toward the guest room. She saw the effort it took for him not to touch the banister or the wall. The sight of it had brought tears to her eyes. Her eyes were moist again, remembering, and she pressed her fingertips to her temples.

He’d been terribly sick before. Once he’d fainted in the doctor’s office. He’d had whooping cough. Sometimes he got such a bad cold that the bed shook with his fever tremors. Yet he’d always made a full recovery. He was a strong man. He wasn’t in the high-risk age group.

The girls were, though, and Peter had spent the night on the porch. Somehow, deep down, he must have known. He must have known and taken himself out into the cold away from them.

Two tiny shards of hope.

She pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them over her wrists. There’d been a box of masks in that old toolbox Peter lugged to his research sites, but of course it was gone, along with his truck. But he might have tucked some spares on his workbench in the garage. So much of his stuff had lain untouched this past year.

She stepped out into the garage and quickly closed the door behind her. How many germs rushed at her? Surely the freezing temperatures had killed them all. She stepped around things and went to the garage door, bent and grasped the handle. She pulled it up high enough to get her shoulder beneath the wood and gave a mighty shove. The door rolled up and banged against the back of the ceiling. She waited to see if it would slide back down. It rocked but stayed. She’d leave it open and let things air out.

There was enough light to see by now. A gray cardboard carton sat on the shelf above the workbench. When she brought it down, she found it had some heft to it, enough to make her think she’d gotten lucky. She unfastened the lid and discovered the tidy row of molded white objects nestled together. A pair of safety goggles hung by their rubber strap from the Peg-Board. She’d need those, too. She reached out for them and knocked over a tool that clattered to the floor.

Behind her she heard something, a surreptitious clicking noise. Someone was in here with her. She whirled around: Barney, standing on the blanket in the corner. His lips were curled back and his teeth were bared. The ruff of his neck stood straight up. He growled, ominous sounds that echoed around the small space.

“What’s Barney doing on the porch?” Peter had said, swaying there in the kitchen and looking at her, bewildered. But the dog hadn’t been on the porch. He’d been in here the whole time.

She eyed him. He no longer resembled that friendly, panting dog at the end of Finn’s leash. He’d taken on some wolf. Ann dropped her gaze and backed away, stepped across the threshold, and slammed the door between them. She half expected to hear the animal hurl himself against the wood, but the door remained still.

Maybe Barney was sick, too. He’d slept in the van with Peter for two nights. Could dogs carry the flu? Why hadn’t she asked Peter about that? She prayed that he’d wander away through the open garage door. If not, at least he’d keep the rats away.

In the kitchen, she set the box on the counter and withdrew a mask. Slipping it over her head, she pressed the thin strip of metal against the bridge of her nose. The paper hugged her cheeks and cupped her chin. It felt like a tight fit, but she had better make sure. Opening a cabinet, she removed the pale yellow box that sat there beside all the other spices they’d decided not to take with them and opened it to remove a slim packet of artificial sweetener. She shook the package, tore open one corner, and dumped the powder into a glass of water. On the laundry room shelf was a spray container. She poured the sugar solution into the plastic bottle, screwed on the cap, spritzed some into the air, and inhaled deeply.

There was no answering flood of sweetness in her mouth. The mask fit. There was no way to gauge when a mask would be too clogged to be effective, so she’d have to remember to swap them out regularly. If she was careful, she might get a day’s use from each.

She needed enough for eight days.

Pulling out a tray, she assembled the ibuprofen, decongestant, and a bottle of saline spray. She poured a glass of apple juice with a shaking hand and set some crackers on a plate. Peter hadn’t finished his meal the night before. At the time, she’d thought it was because the sauce was so salty. Now she knew. Loss of appetite was the first symptom.

She glanced at the window. The girls were still outside on the trampoline, playing some sort of game with Jacob that had him rocking back and forth on his hands and knees, grinning and drooling.

Beneath the bathroom sink upstairs, she found an old shower cap, one of those disposable ones from a long-ago hotel stay. She put on one of Peter’s shirts, worn backward like a smock, picked up the bucket of cleaning supplies, wedged a box of tissues beneath her arm, and lifted the tray.

A rush of freezing air drew her down to the guest room. Stepping inside the room, she found the windows wide open, the curtains billowing in the cold air.

Peter lay in the bed, comforters heaped on top of him. He turned his face toward her. “Don’t come in.”

His voice was a croak. Fever had imprinted itself across his features, brightening his eyes, blooming in red circles high on his cheeks. She crossed to the window and her foot bumped something. Glancing down, she saw a pillow lying on the floor. She bent to retrieve it.

“Don’t touch that. I’ve got it blocking the vent. Leave the windows alone.”

Air flow. Of course. He was trying to keep the virus in here with him and not circulating. The furnace was off, so germs couldn’t rush through the vents. But still. Even the smallest air current would be enough to send the virus swirling through the entire house. She straightened. “I’ll get you some more blankets.” There were some in the chest in her room. She’d pick the lightest, warmest ones, nothing that reeked of chimney smoke.

He turned his face and coughed, caught his breath. “I was contagious yesterday.”

“I know.” She made her voice soothing, wiped clean of the terror she felt hearing what she already knew. She came over to look down at him. “How, Peter? How could this happen?”

“It must have mutated.” He struggled to keep his gaze on her. “Keep an eye on the girls.”

“Of course.”
Fight, Peter. Show your stubborn side. I need you. We all need you
. “How’s your headache?”

“Pretty bad.” Another cough rumbled in his chest.

“I brought you some ibuprofen. Can you manage something to eat or drink?”

“I’ll drink something.”

“Okay.” She shook two pills from the bottle and placed them in his palm, handed him the glass of juice. He lifted his head from the pillow and swallowed, accepted the cracker she held out. He handed her back the glass, and she set it on the nightstand.

“Do you need help getting to the bathroom?”

His eyes were closed and his breathing had taken on a wheezing rasp. “I’m okay.”

He was falling asleep. A good thing. The more rest he got, the sooner he’d recover. Sleep had always been the magic pill for him. She stood there for a long moment, watching him, hearing the children laugh and shout below, still giddy, no doubt, with the prospect of their upcoming trip. She yearned to bend and kiss his cheek, scruff and all, place her hand on his chest and feel its reassuring rise and fall. Her fingers reached out, and she shook her head. She couldn’t. She didn’t dare.

“Check on Barney, will you?” he mumbled.

“Don’t worry about the dog.”

“Ann, you have to.”

“Oh, Peter. I can’t deal with that.” She had to focus all her energy on him, on keeping watch over their children. The dog would have to fend for himself.

But he wasn’t listening. She watched him for a moment. His breathing evened out. He was asleep.

In the hall, she pulled off her mask and gloves, oversized shirt and hairnet, and left them heaped in the bucket outside the door. Maybe she did have some room inside her to care for that darned dog. How hard could it be to fill one bowl with water and another with a few scraps of food? And she’d keep the minivan packed. The minute Peter was well enough—providing no one else got sick—they’d leave. Peter had been right. They were on their own.

FORTY-THREE

W
AS IT THE THIRD DAY OR THE FOURTH? PETER
couldn’t be sure. He shifted in bed, trying to find a way to lie against the pillows and blankets that didn’t make his limbs ache. The ibuprofen was wearing off.

Shadows slanted across the walls. He squinted at the windows, tried to make out whether early-morning rays were creeping over the sill or late-afternoon sunshine was taking its leave. The door creaked open, and he turned his head. Ann was coming into the room. She was wearing that ridiculous costume again, the white mask and big plastic goggles, her hair pulled up into a flowered shower cap, and a pair of pink rubber gloves and one of his shirts turned backward.

“You’ll never get a man in that getup.”

She smiled at that, her cheeks bunching up and moving the mask a little. “Good thing you’re stuck with me.” She brought the chair from the corner and sat. “You didn’t finish your juice.”

He licked his lips. His mouth was dry. She brought the glass to him. It was good. He swallowed.

“Do you think you can manage these pills?” She held out her hand.

He fumbled for the small white tablets. He couldn’t seem to get a grasp on them. She lifted one to his lips, and he opened his mouth so she could place it on his tongue. He tried to swallow it down, but he gagged and spat it instead into her palm.

“Hold on,” she said.

She crushed the pills with the bottom of the glass, then brought the glass down level and swept the white powder with her gloved fingers to float lazily down into the juice.

“How are the girls?”

“Playing poker. Maddie’s winning. Kate’s determined to eradicate her from the face of the earth. They’ve been fighting all morning.”

“No. How are they?”

She looked at him. “Fine.”

“Good.”

She dipped the straw into the juice, covered the top with a finger, and carried it to his mouth. Obediently he opened his mouth, and she dripped the sweet stuff onto his tongue.

“What day is it?”

“Five days.”

“Good,” he croaked out.

Another strawful of juice. She looked at him expectantly. She wanted something. What did she want? She was holding out a tissue.

He coughed, and she pressed the tissue to his mouth. “You look worried,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the water. It smells funny.”

“Don’t drink it. The water company might have … put something in there so you’ll know it’s bad.”

“Can’t I boil it?”

“That’ll take care of the bacteria … but not if the chemicals are off.” The effort of saying this squeezed his lungs and he lay back, panting.

She dropped the tissue away, out of sight. How many tissues was that? Where were they all going? A flood of crumpled white must stretch across the carpet. They would rise and carry his bed off.

“The baby seems fine, too,” she told him. “Maybe he’s immune.”

The baby was fine? How could that be? They’d lost him, so long ago. He remembered the feel and heft of him in his arms, the rounded shape of his head, the steady blue of his eyes. Time couldn’t erase these impressions, even though the day itself had grown cloudy. He recalled pushing past firefighters and EMTs and finding Ann sitting on the step. She was white-faced and holding little Kate in her arms, refusing to set her down. William was gone. After that, nothing had ever been the same again.

She dripped more juice onto his tongue. “Barney seems to be getting better. Though he won’t let me near him to change his dressing.”

He struggled to follow this. Was Barney a friend or a neighbor, a cousin of hers?

There were two of her bending toward him, then one again as she sat back.

“I think he doesn’t like me. You’re the one who has the way with animals.”

Now he remembered. The mutt. The poor animal slinking back to the house he considered home and the man he considered his master, whom he could see through the plate glass but couldn’t reach.

Now Ann was holding up a stuffed owl. He blinked, trying to see it. She wanted him to fix it, make it better. Its pale brown body drooped before him, its huge black eyes unflinching. But his specialty was migratory birds. Ann should know that.

“Kate wanted you to have this.” She propped the toy up on the nightstand.

He hadn’t seen her bring it into the room. Was this another visit? Had she gone out of the room and returned? He tried to focus on the stripes of the shirt Ann wore. Had she been wearing that one before?

“I gave that to her.”

Ann drew her eyebrows down. He’d made her unhappy. Then she smoothed them back out again and smiled at him. The unhappiness was gone. He was relieved.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” she said. “You told her owls were nocturnal.”

And would keep her safe at night while she slept. Kate had had so many fears. It was the only way he could think of to get her to sleep those nights long ago. He remembered the sultry heat of those July evenings, the three of them lying on top of the sheets beneath the ceiling fan as it stirred the air above them, Kate gripping his hand tightly with her small fingers, wanting to be told that the stars couldn’t fall on top of them, that ghosts weren’t watching them from the closet.

He heard the girls playing somewhere. One of them was singing. It reminded him of Ann singing as she painted, off-key, the same song over and over. He missed that sound.

Now she had a bowl. Steam rose from it. The room was darker. Time had passed again. He struggled to a seated position.

“Hungry?” she was saying, dipping a spoon into the bowl and carrying it to his mouth.

He wanted her to move. He threw back the covers, and she was standing now, reaching out for his arm. He shook her off. The motion tightened a band of pain around his head and jabbed knife tips behind his eyes. He had to get to the bathroom. His legs were stiff. The room spun around him. He careened into the wall, hand out for the doorknob.

“No, honey,” Ann was saying. “This one.”

A door yawned before him. He made it to the toilet and heaved up the contents of his stomach. He dropped to his knees and clasped the cold porcelain. He was coughing again and vomiting.

Ann helped him back to bed. She swept the covers up into the air and let them settle against his skin. She put a hand to the back of his neck and helped him suck the straw. He closed his eyes. He loved her so much. He had never loved her more. He wondered if she knew this.

“Oh, Peter,” she said. She patted his forehead with a cool cloth. “Me too, darling.”