The Wednesday Group (30 page)

Hannah strokes Alicia's arm. “Daddy and I are going to step out for just a couple of minutes. Answer the questions as best you can. If you can't remember, just tell her that.” She leans down to kiss her.

Hannah walks to Adam, tugs his hand, and leads him to the waiting room. Two square vinyl armchairs with plum-colored cushions sit in a corner. A round wooden coffee table littered with various magazines stands next to the chairs. Hannah points and Adam obeys her gesture to take a seat.

He shakes his head, then covers his face with his hands. Hannah sits next to him.

“You have to calm down,” she tells him.

“Why? Why would she do that?” he asks. “Walk five miles to the mall?” He drops his hands and stares at her.

She puts a hand on the armrest of his chair. “We'll figure out all the whys. At the moment we just need to be calm and show her we're not angry, and that home is a safe place to be.”

“I just don't understand. She knows better.”

“She didn't want to go home. That's all. Don't read more into this.”

“That's all? She left the mall and somehow ended up in Cambridge where some man sat on a bench with her. God knows what he did.”

She moves her hand to touch him, but withdraws it. “It doesn't sound as if he hurt her.”

“We don't know that. She might be too terrified to say anything. He could have told her something horrible was going to happen if she talked.”

“Adam, she'll tell the truth.”

He shakes his head. “Children don't in these situations. They get scared. An adult makes a threat. Says he'll hurt her family. She doesn't know what's true or not.” He looks at Hannah, his eyes searching for answers she's not sure she has.

“Is that what happened to you?” she asks. “Is that what your uncle made you believe? That someone in your family would get hurt?” She's never pressed him for the details about his uncle, and now, as she looks into his eyes that she thought she knew so well, she notices gray specks—fault lines.

He stands and takes a few steps, then turns back and glances at Hannah. “It's just that … It's so easy to snap. Someone tells you something. You don't know what to believe. And it's gone. Your former self. You're never the same, not really. And…”

She pats the plum-colored back of the chair. “Come sit.”

He doesn't. He stares at the dark window and seems surprised to see his reflection. “It doesn't take a lot. Not really. Children are sensitive. They blame themselves, then their thoughts get confused, nothing is right anymore, but you don't even realize it. You think it's normal to obsess about sex. Normal to lie and tell the guy at the counter you're buying the porn for your dad. Your mind becomes a demented maze. There's no getting out.”

“Adam, it's okay. She'll be okay. You'll be okay. Come, sit. Please.”

He acquiesces, then knocks the wooden armrest with his knuckles. “It's about a power imbalance.”

“Adam, stop. We're not going to let anyone take away Alicia's power.”

“I'm not. I would never…” He looks at Hannah. “I would never hurt my children.”

“I know.”

His shoulders round. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.” And right now, she does know. The tall, sturdy man, her anchor, the man she wanted to believe would keep her and her children safe, is just a child himself.

“Every day that you don't leave me, I thank God.” The rims of his eyes are pink.

“It's okay,” she says quietly. “We don't have to talk about us right now.” Again she reaches toward him, but again only touches the arm of the chair.

“I don't have a right to say how I feel. But—”

“Of course you have the right. All people have the right to talk about how they feel.” She believes what she says, even though she knows that there were many times when she didn't want to listen to him, didn't want to hear all the reasons he chose to have sex with male prostitutes.

“I was so scared today. So unbelievably scared. And it made me realize how scared I am all the time.” He pauses. “I'm not asking for forgiveness…”

“I know.” She looks at a
Good Housekeeping
magazine on the table and wonders what secrets the perfect-looking wife on the cover keeps.

“When I drive home from work, I get so anxious, thinking that this will be the night you finally tell me you just can't take it anymore. Sometimes I imagine you'll have all my stuff on the front lawn in big green garbage bags.”

She wants him to stop talking, to stop telling her how frightened he is. It's not that she doesn't care, it's that it occurs to her that they are both terrified, both unanchored. They have melting points, breaking points. They have the ability to come undone.

“It will be okay.” She's the one doling out the platitude this time, only it doesn't feel trite. She means it, and it occurs to her that Adam might be equally sincere when he tries to soothe her.

Theresa finds them.

“Everything seems to be all right, but I will need to follow up with a couple of home visits,” she tells them, glancing from one to the other.

“Can we go back in?” Hannah asks as she and Adam stand.

“Yes. But I would like to say something, if you don't mind.” Theresa's small mouth curves downward.

Hannah does mind. “Go ahead.”

“I don't think it's wise to talk to children about sex until they're ready.”

“We know.” Hannah glares at Theresa. “We also know—”

Adam gently pulls Hannah away before she says something she might regret. He is transformed back into the man she needs him to be.

This time, when they walk into the room that smells as if it's been doused in bleach, Adam greets Alicia with a kiss on the cheek.

“We're going to have the biggest, baddest sundaes ever,” he tells her.

She smiles. “Can we go home now?”

“As soon as the doctor says it's okay,” Hannah says.

“I'm sorry,” Alicia whispers.

“We're sorry too,” Hannah tells her as she figures out how to lower the rail. She climbs onto the bed and gathers Alicia into her arms.

 

Bridget

Bridget's shift is nearly over. She should be finishing her notes, but she can't concentrate. She keeps thinking of home, of how no one will be there. She doesn't know how she's going to make it through the night without Michael. It's weak and pathetic, but she needs him there. Just for a few more days, until she gets used to the idea. She promised herself earlier that she wouldn't call him, but now that the end of her shift is only minutes away, she's starting to panic. If she texts him, he can get there before her. Maybe she is a co-addict, or codependent, or whatever anyone else wants to fucking label her. All she knows is that she's a terrified pregnant wife. She takes out her phone and stares at it.

Hannah never called back. Bridget hadn't pegged her for a cold person, but maybe Bridget's intuition about people is screwed up.

After all, she thought Michael was a good guy, honest to his toes. She thinks about the time, a few years back, when they went out with Janice and Janice's boyfriend. The boyfriend went to the bathroom, and Janice checked his phone. Michael shook his head, disgusted, and said he and Bridget didn't play those sorts of games. Bridget snuggled closer to him, thinking she was the luckiest girl in the world to have someone so decent and respectful. It still shocks her to think that so much of him was just a scam.

Lizzy didn't call back, either. Gail was the only one who replied. It almost seems funny now, how much Bridget couldn't stand Gail when they first met.

Hey, can you

she begins her text to Michael, then erases it. She needs to hold on, make it through at least one night.

Hector, the other nurse on duty, joins her at the desk that sits behind the huge glass shield. The patients are all in bed. The quieter the ward, the more agitated Bridget feels.

“Outta here in fifteen,” Hector says as he glances at a clipboard. He's a no-bullshit kind of guy, and for the most part, she likes working with him.

“Yeah, thank God,” Bridget replies, stuffing her phone in her pocket.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You're usually swearing up a storm by this point.”

She shrugs. Michael didn't even text her to see if she was all right. It just feels unreal. How can the man who she believed read her every thought just be out of her life?

The desk phone rings. Hector picks up. “Floor ten.” He nods. “Now? Can you wait like five minutes, until the next shift?” He nods again. “Yeah, of course. Bring him up.” He hangs up.

“A new intake?” Bridget asks.

“Yep, in a full-blown psychotic state. Should be fun. I say we get him into the back quiet room and let the next shift do the rest.”

“No, I'm up for it. What did they tell you?” she asks.

“Name is Marc Backstram, but I guess he likes to go by Saint Bartholomew. They checked him at the hospital. Seems fine physically. Gave him some Thorazine to calm him down.”

She watches as two attendants carry in a thin man with long hair and a scraggly beard. A cop shuffles at the rear. Marc's arms are restrained by a white jacket. It doesn't matter how many times she's seen it, or how many times she tells herself that the cloth restraints are painless and safe, it still gives her the chills. They carry him around the corner. She follows.

Bridget signs the paperwork. The attendants leave.

“Why you here?” she asks the large, burly cop.

“He caused a scene. Was with some kid, who might have been running away. We just gotta make sure nothing happened. You know?”

“He probably just freaked the kid out. Happens with schizophrenics.” She glances at Marc. All she wants now is to lose herself in someone else's fucked-up world.

“Can't say I know that much about the disease,” the cop remarks.

“We like to calm patients down, and it's normally best if there aren't too many distractions. It would be better if you wait outside. Let me talk to him.”

“Fine by me. But I gotta listen.”

“Grab a chair.” She points down the hall. “And there's coffee at the nursing station.”

Marc is flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. The pale room is furnished with a mattress and one hard plastic chair. She doesn't use the chair. Instead she sits cross-legged on the floor next to him.

“My name is Bridget,” she says softly. He stares at the ceiling and shivers so violently his teeth chatter.

“I'm going to stay here and talk to you for a little.”

He turns to her. His skin is thin and papery, his eyes bloodshot.

“Can you hear me?” she asks.

He doesn't respond. He could be catatonic. They probably roughed him up good when they brought him over.

“Marc, I'm here to help. I want you to know you're safe.”

“Whore,” he hisses.

“Good to hear you talk,” she replies.

“Whore,” he says again.

“Do you know where you are?”

He glares. “Inside a spaceship.”

“You're on a psych ward in Jamaica Plain. We're going to help you get better.”

“Free me or you'll be damned.” He kicks his legs. The cop pokes his head in. Bridget nods, signaling all is fine.

“You're not a prisoner here. No one is going to hurt you.”

“You come in the middle of the night and take out people's brains. I was trying to help that girl. Now she's gone.”

“She's safe.”

“You're a liar and a whore.” His breathing is jagged. “My name is Saint Bartholomew, and I am without guile.”

“I like people without guile,” she tells him.

He looks at her again, and although his eyes are still wary, she can see she has an opening.

“I am without fear. I will be skinned alive and nailed to a cross.”

“That sounds frightening.” She reaches over and touches his shoulder.

“I live without guile and without fear.”

“Wish I could do that.” She likes this man, this Bartholomew without guile.

“The earth will end in a great fire. Sin will taint all the lovers, and they will burn until their skin is charred and their eyes melt.”

The cop steps in. “There a place to order takeout around here?” he asks.

Bartholomew snaps to sitting. “Go to hell,” he shouts.

Bridget glares at the cop. He backs up. “He's leaving,” she says to Bartholomew.

“You whore. You tricked me. I see what you're doing. I see through your glass eyes.” He tries to free his arms but can't. He twists and grimaces.

“I'm not trying to trick you,” she assures him.

He pulls up his knees and drops his head. His breathing becomes labored again. She will stay with him and give him all the time he needs. She guesses he's in his fifties, although he looks much older. And in another way, much younger. As she watches him begin to rock, she sees herself, stubborn, fighting battles she can't win, never wanting to put down the sword because the surrender, the pain that comes with it, is distilled, pure loneliness. For thirteen years, since her mother died, she's been trying to run from it, and now here it is, pressing fiercely on her chest.

“Saint Bartholomew,” she whispers. Her voice falters.

He glances at her. His eyes are sad. For a second she feels as if the two thin threads of their universes entwine.

“I am without guile,” he tells her.

“I admire that,” she says. And she does. As sick and psychotic as Bartholomew is, she knows that he is never dishonest, would never purposefully hurt or deceive.

“You're a whore. Your mother is a whore.”

He lies down, faces the wall, and curls away from her. She leans toward him and strokes his snarled hair. “You are not alone,” she whispers.