Thorns of Truth (48 page)

Rose felt the weight of all that knowledge.… Then it was gone, the tremendous burden she’d been carrying for years lifted. The world at large came crashing in. Noise. People yelling. A clomping stampede of glistening rubber boots, and dripping yellow turnouts.

Looking up at a circle of faces blackened by smoke under the beaks of their helmets, she cracked hoarsely, “What took you guys so long?”

Chapter 18

T
HE PIGEON WAS AN
odd clay color, speckled with reddish spots like rust. When Iris put her hand out, it didn’t fly away like the others. It just stood there, on the stone path in front of the park bench on which she sat, its head cocked, one odd salmon-colored eye fixed on her like some unearthly oracle’s. As if it knew quite well what she was doing in this not-so-safe park on a chilly fall night when nice, normal people were safe indoors.

Good, she thought. Because I wish you’d tell me.

She knew two things: she was hungry, and she was lost. The park in which she’d spent the better part of the day was small—from here, she could see the streets on all four sides—but before, when she’d looked at the signs, none of them had made sense. Madison Avenue. Twenty-fifth Street. Names, just names. Like pieces of puzzle rattling loose in a box.

Her memories, too, were random, scattered. Some clearer than others, but not forming any kind of pattern that made sense, or that might point the way home. Drew, for instance. He was out there. Somewhere. She could feel him, as if he were here beside her—the texture of his skin, his smell, the soft hairs at the nape of his neck that formed a whorl. But, strangely, frighteningly, she couldn’t summon the knowledge of how to reach him.

A memory of particular clarity drifted to the surface—one summer at Lake George. She and Drew had been walking back from town one day when they met up with a girl around their age, the teenaged daughter of one of the summer people renting the cottage down the road from theirs. Iris remembered only that she was pretty and blonde, with a short blue top that showed off a tanned midriff … and that she’d invited Drew— not her—to go sailing the following day. Iris had felt instantly crushed. Of course he would accept. How could he not?

When Drew politely told the girl he had other plans, Iris almost blurted. Are you crazy? But then as they were walking away, Drew slung an arm about her shoulders and remarked casually, “You know that berry patch up on the hill, behind Old Man Patterson’s? How about we get up real early, before everybody else, and go pick a bunch for breakfast?” After a brief pause, he’d added softly, “She could’ve asked you, too. What would it have hurt?”

Even all these years later, Iris could feel the precise weight of his arm against her sunburned shoulders; she could see the noontime sun, high and brilliant in the washed-out blue of the sky, and their foreshortened shadows bumping together companionably over the narrow asphalt road with its dusting of fine sand, like sugar on a pair of gingerbread men.

Yet at this moment, she couldn’t have found her way to safety if her life depended on it. She could picture Drew’s building perfectly, down to the graffiti on the bricks by the entrance … but had forgotten what street it was on. And even if she could find him, she wasn’t at all sure he’d want to see her.

Her parents, too. She could see them in her mind, like the miniature family in the dollhouse she’d played with when she was young: a father in a plaid shirt and trousers, with funny painted-on hair; a flaxen-haired mother in a flowered dress; a little girl in a puff-sleeved blouse and skirt. Except Iris never could seem to keep them all in one place. The father-doll would be missing for weeks, then she’d find him under the bed, or in her closet. Once, the mother-doll had turned up in the laundry basket.

And now the girl-doll was lost.

Iris shivered in the chill wind that rattled the leaves overhead. How long had she been sitting here? How long since she’d eaten? Her stomach had stopped growling; she was aware only of a pulse thumping in the hollow of her empty stomach, and a dizziness that made her head feel suspended several feet above her shoulders, like a balloon on a string.

Iris pulled her canvas jacket about her, wishing she had something warmer to wear. But she couldn’t remember having put the jacket on … or even where she’d been going at the time.

A homeless man in a shabby coat with a grocery cart stuffed full of cans and folded shopping bags was sprawled on the bench across from hers, muttering to himself. Harmless enough. Yet she was struck by a wild, irrational fear. Was she like that man?

And if not, what was wrong with her?

Dr. Eisenger might have been able to tell her. But she wouldn’t have known how to reach him, either. Though she could see him clearly in her mind. The light-blue cable-knit cardigan that rumpled in little waves over his ample belly, the little tuft between his bushy eyebrows that fascinated her so—how many accumulated minutes had she wasted fixating on those hairs, wondering why he didn’t clip them? She pictured him removing his horn-rimmed glasses, and wiping the lenses with the large white handkerchief he always carried in his pocket. Polishing them with slow, ponderous strokes of his thumb, rubbing away invisible specks only he could see.

The way he’d tried to polish her.

But whenever he rubbed too close to the bone, something in her pulled back.

You could remember if you wanted to, she scolded herself. You know you could. You just have to TRY.

The voice in her head abruptly changed, growing harsher. “Stop crying. Will you just STOP. Who the fuck can think with all that bawling …”

Iris, cowering on the park bench, covered her ears. But she couldn’t shut out the angry voice. And now the shouting was accompanied by a loud hissing noise—like the wave machine in her therapist’s waiting room multiplied by a thousand.

Concentrate. She had to concentrate.

You’re on your way over to Drew’s, but first, you stop at the drugstore, for some Tampax. At the register, you realize your wallet is missing. Stolen. You remember a woman brushing up against you … the same woman now leaving the store. You dash after her, running to catch up. But the crowd on the sidewalk keeps swallowing her. She ducks down a side street … and into a building. You start to follow her inside … but it’s a run-down building, creepy and dark, with graffiti on the walls. Something familiar about it, though. A smell you recognize. And there’s a guy stumbling down the rickety stairs, glassy eyes in a sunken face. A face you’ve seen before …

The memory abruptly blinked off. Iris looked up. Street-lamps bloomed along the darkened path that wound through the park. Under one, a bronze statue was spotlit—a statesmanlike figure poised before a chair, as if to give a speech. Just beyond, above the treetops, towered a spire lit with autumn colors—green and yellow and orange. Pretty, yes, but where was she? And what, exactly, had brought her here?

You know. But you don’t want to know. Because it was a bad thing. Scary so scary. The images came in a jumbled rush, like in her nightmares—a match flaring in a dimly lighted room, a cupped hand holding it to the stub of a candle. Then the spoon. Glinting bright in the candlelight. And now the needle … oh God, the needle.

The nightmare scene inside her head grew jerky, like an old silent film. A pale arm, against which the needle flashed. Small hands—mine?—tugging on that arm, trying to pull it away from the needle … but knocking over the candle instead. A spurt of flame …

… You’re running again. And this time you know where you’re going: Grandma’s house. You still have the key … You’ll be safe there.…

But the house isn’t empty. From across the street, you see a woman letting herself out the front door. Rose. Who hates you. Who took Grandma’s house away from you …

You start to cry. You don’t know who to trust, who to call.

You wait until Rose is out of sight … then slip in through the front door. You don’t dare turn on any lights—Rose might come back and see.

Candle. Matches. Where did Grandma keep them?

There. The candlestick on the mantel. With matches in a pretty cloisonné box beside it. You carry the candle up the stairs, to the attic. It’s where you always used to play, where you’ll feel safe.

You’re so tired. All you want to do is sleep. And there, in the corner of the attic, is the crib that used to be Mama’s. You climb inside, and curl up. You’re home.…

You wake up coughing. Smoke. There’s smoke everywhere, and flames spurting from a pile of old drapes … next to the candle.…

You have to get out. Oh God. It’s just like before. The fire. But what fire?—you can’t remember. The only thing you know is that it was big. It blotted out everything.…

And now you know something else: you don’t want to die. Maybe you did, those other times, but now all you can think of is getting out before it’s too late …

Before …

Iris squeezed her eyes shut, drawing a heavy curtain inside her head—a trick she’d used for years—to block out the ugly pictures. She felt very afraid. She wanted Mama and Daddy. Grandma, too. Tears rolled down her cheeks, warming their chilled numbness. Mostly, she wanted somehow to stop this hurt.

A hurt that went even deeper than her hunger—a hurt that lay curled in the depths of her aching belly like a fat cocoon. Waiting … waiting. For what? To be born.

The blaring of a radio jerked her from her thoughts. She looked over … at a teenager in home-boy jeans that bagged down around his Air Jordan Nikes, seated on a bench farther down the path, a boom box propped on one knee. Its volume was turned up loud—the insistent, mind-deadening beat of rap music. But now the kid was fiddling with the dial, surfing the stations. A voice jumped out at her, one she recognized.

“Iris … if you’re listening …”

She snapped upright, her heart leaping. No. Not possible. Now she was hearing voices on the radio—voices talking directly to her? God, oh God, she really was turning into one of those looney-tunes, like the old guy seated across from her.

“… just a phone call. Your family is really worried about you.”

It was real; she wasn’t imagining it. And she knew that voice.… Dad’s friend Eric, the guy Rose was so crazy about. He was pleading with her to call home. But how? She had no money. No phone, either.

How would she be able to give directions? And even if she could, what would be the point? Her parents were better off without her. And Drew … he would be …

Mad. So mad that this time he might REALLY leave you.

No. She couldn’t take that chance.

The homeless man across from her lurched to his feet, looming huge as a shadow on a wall. His dirty, bearded face, under the glare of a sodium-arc light, was like something out of a monster movie. Iris cringed, whimpering under her breath. She’d never felt so scared, so small.

“… Now look what you done, you little brat. I swear, soon as I get my hands on you …”

“You, girl, you hungry? Want some o’ m’ sandwich?” The shabby, bearded man thrust something at her—a crust wrapped in wrinkled wax paper. Iris almost laughed out loud with relief. He wasn’t trying to hurt her; he was merely being kind.

She began to cry instead, silent tears that slid down her cheeks like rainwater from an overflowing cistern, dripping off her chin onto her clenched hands. She shook her head, yet somehow found the courage to ask meekly, “I could use a quarter, though. You wouldn’t happen to have any spare change?”

The man grinned, revealing several gaps where teeth had been. A low laugh rumbled in his throat like an approaching subway train. He laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his whole life. Even Iris, as miserable as she was, couldn’t help cracking a smile.

“Damn. Now I heard everythin’. Almos’ makes me wish I could hep you.” The man cocked a thumb in the direction of the teenager with the boom box, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now, him—you ask real nice, pretty girl like you, and he give you jus’ ’bout anything you want.”

Iris rose on trembling legs. When she had spoken up just now, something huge that had been holding her pinned seemed to have lifted. She felt more in control somehow. Like someone with a voice, who could ask for what she needed. Even so, her heart was racing as she approached the kid on the next bench. Swallowing against the dryness of her throat, she said, “I need to make a phone call. It’s really important. Do you have a quarter you could spare?”

The kid eyed her, smiling broadly to let her know he didn’t believe her excuse but she was good looking enough to get away with it. Then, with a shrug, he dug into his pocket.

Closing her fingers around the handful of coins he dropped into her palm. Iris thanked him, and hastily walked away, before he could change his mind and ask for it back.
Now
what?

Wandering through the strange park with autumn leaves floating down around her, some sticking in her hair, she felt a rush of anxiety so great her knees began to buckle. The prospect of finding a phone booth, then trying to remember which numbers to punch, was overwhelming. A mountain to climb. And what if Drew didn’t want to speak to her? What if Mom and Daddy were so sick of her they decided to send her away?

Then she heard it again. Eric’s voice, drifting toward her over the riffling leaves and muttering of pigeons.

“. ..
when you’re on the run, there aren’t many things you can count on … but your family, believe me, is one.
…”

Iris somehow found the strength to keep walking. Toward danger or safety, she didn’t know. The only thing she knew for sure was that she was at least sane enough to want to find out.

Eric wrapped up the evening shift—he’d traded with Miles Joseph, who normally hosted from eight to ten—and breathed a deep sigh as he tore off his headphones. Who knew what, if anything, would come of his on-air appeal? It was a long shot at best. When someone like Iris disappeared, often it was for good.

He ought to know. At every AA meeting, there was an odds-on chance the person beside you would wind up on a slab at the county morgue. Normies, they didn’t get it, he thought. For most people, suicide simply wasn’t an option. They couldn’t envision a life of such torment it took a will of iron just to get out of bed every morning. But for someone who was sick, or deeply depressed, even tying his shoes can seem like too much effort.