All Things Cease to Appear (42 page)

—

THE NEW YEAR
comes with sunrise, waking her from sleep. Gradually, it registers in her mind that George is not in bed. She sits up, listening intently, but the house is silent. She doesn’t like not knowing where he is. A little frightened, she pulls on her robe and hurries into the hall, past the door of her sleeping daughter, and down the stairs, momentarily bewitched by a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror, the sunlight floating all around her, making rainbows on the ceiling, and in her eyes a dazzling clarity, as if confronting another version of herself, one who is more mature, composed, courageous—who can get her out of this place.

She finds him in his study, his back to the door, an open bottle of bourbon on the desk, a cigarette burning in the ashtray.

George? He doesn’t answer. Are you all right?

Why wouldn’t I be?

It’s then that she sees the blood. Drops splattered on the floor.

You’re hurt.

Yes.

What happened to you?

I cut myself.

Doing what?

He turns around in his chair and looks at her. She can see the towel around his hand, soaked through with blood. His eyes are glassy and mean. He stares at her a long minute, deciding something. Go back to bed, he says. No one in their right mind should be up this early.

—

ON VALENTINE’S DAY
it snows all afternoon. She and Franny cut pink hearts out of construction paper, then paste on doilies and candy hearts. It’s important to tell people you love them, she advises Franny.

They drop the cards off at the Hale boys’ house in town. That’s when she asks Eddy and he says, sure, he can take her. He touches her shoulder. You’ll be okay.

Read this, she says, handing Cole his card. I mean every word of it.

—

GEORGE FORGETS
Valentine’s Day. He comes home empty-handed. She doesn’t make an issue of it. He’s tired, overworked, complaining about all his administrative responsibilities and how the students want so much.

It’s a stupid holiday anyway, she thinks.

But Franny cries and carries on. George goes out and comes back an hour later with candy hearts for Franny and a glittery card. These are for you, he then says, and hands Catherine a heart-shaped box full of chocolates. Happy now?

She looks at his unshaven face, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the tricky glint in his eye like broken glass.

She doesn’t answer and goes upstairs, sits on the edge of the tub and opens the box. The smell whirls up. She begins. One after another, dropping the wrappers on the floor, little brown scraps of ridged paper that remind her of chestnuts. The sticky caramel and chunky nougat coat her throat. After a while she doesn’t even taste them.

He finds her later, over the toilet.

What’s the matter? What are you doing?

I’m throwing up my marriage, is all she can think to say.

—

NOW THAT
it’s here, this day, it’s harder than she thought. At quarter to seven, once he’s in the shower, she hurries out to her car. As she’s pulling out, he trips down the front steps in his bathrobe, shaving cream on his face. I have an appointment, she shouts. You’ll have her all day.

But I have to—

She doesn’t hang around to hear him complain, her tires skidding on the slippery road.

She drives into town and parks by the café, where Eddy’s waiting as they’d planned. When she gets into his truck he says, You okay?

She nods. Thank you for this. I didn’t know who else to ask.

They don’t talk on the highway to Albany, where they cross the bridge and she can see the buildings, the train yard with its long black trains, the smokestacks near the port. It’s a clinic downtown, on Lark Street. The nurse takes her hand and he waits for her outside.

After it’s done, they give her Oreos and grape juice and show her how to wear the pad. She feels a deep and unending emptiness. That’s expected, they tell her. It’s a hard thing. It’s not easy for anyone.

There’s a diner across the street and she treats him to lunch. She orders tomato soup and grilled cheese and he has a burger. He shares his fries. The soup is more fresh and delicious than anything she’s ever tasted before. I just couldn’t do it, she says to Eddy. He doesn’t deserve me. I couldn’t put a baby through all that.

You don’t have to say anything, Eddy says, and touches her hand. You’re beautiful, Catherine. Try to remember that.

When she gets home she finds George and Franny watching some old movie. She offers no explanation and goes up to bed.

He watches her and doesn’t say a word.

In the bathroom, she notices that the wastebasket where she’d left the test is empty. It was right there, hard to miss. She’d left it for him. She’d wanted him to know.

On Wednesday, Bram calls to give them the news that Justine is awake. With amazement bordering on euphoria, she drives to the hospital alone. A little frightened, she follows the nurse down to her room.

Justine, she cries, hugging her. Thank God you’re all right. She pulls up a chair and takes her hand.

Justine searches her face like some long-lost relative. I’ve been in another place, she says.

Catherine nods. You’ve been sleeping for a long time. Do you remember anything? Do you know what happened?

Justine shakes her head. No, not really. I remember being terrified, but I don’t know why. She looks out the window, where you can see the tops of the trees.

I don’t know where the sun went, Catherine says.

They said more snow on the news this morning.

Catherine nods. It’s snowed a lot since, well, since your accident.

They sit there looking out the window, not talking.

It’s such a beautiful world, Justine says. People don’t know. They don’t realize what they have.

She turns her head back to Catherine and squeezes her hand. You have to live exactly the way you want to, she says. I know it’s hard to know what that is. But life—

She stops talking suddenly and shakes her head, as if it’s impossible to put her thoughts into words. I saw things, she says finally. Marvelous things.

She leans back against the pillow as if the conversation has exhausted her, and Catherine decides she’d better go. She gets up and starts for the door.

It’s a fragile thing, life is, Justine says. That’s something I know now. You have to live your own way. Before it’s too late.

—

THE NEXT MORNING,
when George is at work, she begins to pack while Franny watches her programs. She thinks of calling her mother. I’m leaving him, she imagines telling her. He’s a dangerous man. But the possibility of her mother’s clever persuasion worries her and she decides against it. Because her mother doesn’t know George, not really. In her mother’s eyes, their marriage has the blue-ribbon stamp of authenticity.

She finishes filling the suitcases, packing in as much as she can, then lugs them downstairs and out to the car. There is the sense in her mind that she must leave and leave now, and she is filled with a nearly desperate excitement. But the weather is not cooperating. A storm descends, a harrowing blizzard. Schools are closed, roads unplowed. Still, she dresses Franny in her coat and hat and socks and snow boots, moving slowly, numbly, fumbling with her pocketbook, her keys, the bag of snacks she prepared for the drive. As they walk to the car, the snow whirls up in their faces and Franny starts to cry. She hurries her into her car seat, furious at George for making her park outside, more concerned about his stupid ragtop than his wife and daughter. There have been signs, she thinks. There have been signs all along. She just couldn’t see them.

She starts the engine, shifts into reverse, but the car doesn’t move and the wheels spin futilely in the snow. She floors the engine and it makes an awful sound like someone screaming. Defeated, she shuts it off.

Why can’t we go, Momma?

We’re stuck.

Stuck?

In the snow. She sits there, unwilling to move, too angry to even cry as it becomes ominously clear to her that they won’t be going anywhere.

Resigned to the weather, she leaves the suitcases in the car and brings Franny inside, shielding her from the falling snow as if from an explosion. She will try again later, she decides, once the roads are cleared.

But with classes canceled, George is home earlier than usual. She hears him coming in, stamping snow off his boots. She doesn’t bother getting up. He is looking for her now, searching the rooms downstairs, speaking her name to the darkening emptiness with growing agitation until he finds her there in the bed.

What’s wrong?

Be quiet, Franny’s sleeping.

Are you ill?

Another headache, she lies.

They closed the interstate, he mutters. I had some time getting home.

I wish it would stop.

He stands there in his overcoat. What are those suitcases doing in your car?

I was going to…

Going to what?

With difficulty, she pulls herself up, as if there’s a great weight upon her, a great force pushing her down, and then the truth falls from her mouth. I tried to leave, she blurts. But I couldn’t get out.

Of course you couldn’t, he says, his voice unusually soft. He sits down beside her on the bed. She can smell the cold on him and something else, the faintest scent of pine.

I thought I’d go—

Where? He looks at her with confusion.

Home, she says, barely audible, her lips trembling.

Your home is here, Cathy. He puts his hand on her back, heavy, heavy, her old name ringing in her ears, making her cry, and finally nothing seems to matter anymore—who they are—what they are—the ridiculous game they’ve been playing—and she says what’s been on her mind for months: The seat was wet.

What?

That night. In your car.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

It was soaked.

What’s wrong with you? he says.

You were on that boat, weren’t you? The night Floyd drowned.

He shakes his head and looks at her strangely. I think you’ve really fucking lost it, he says. Abruptly, his face drains of all emotion and he clutches her arm and pulls her up and shuffles her out into the hall, down the stairs. I want that car unpacked. Now. You won’t be needing any suitcases, I can promise you that. He shoves her out the door and slams it shut.

Without her coat, her shoes, it’s freezing out. Shaking, she gathers the suitcases, cold tears running down her face. She swats them away irritably. She will have to appease him somehow; she will have to convince him she didn’t mean it—that she understands, even forgives. A secret she will keep forever, she rehearses telling him.

She brings the suitcases inside. Of course he doesn’t help her. He watches her struggle to carry them upstairs. She takes everything out and stuffs it back into the drawers, then shoves the empty suitcases into the closet. In despair, she sits down on the bed and tries to think, to plan. She can hear him in the kitchen, the sound of steak frying on a too-high flame, the fat sizzling in the pan, wafting smoke. She can hear her daughter’s voice.

Somehow they get through dinner. He fixes her a plate and sets it down, but she can hardly eat. She cuts the meat in tiny pieces, the limp green beans jumbled in her mouth. There’s wine, thick and bitter, and he makes her drink some. For your nerves, he tells her, refilling her glass.

She tries not to look at him. But he won’t stop looking at her, chewing slowly, deliberating. They’re enemies, she realizes. True, bitter enemies. She can feel his hatred of her. His wanting something—she doesn’t know what. Planning something.

She cleans up the kitchen, conscious of his whereabouts. He plays with Franny—such a good daddy. Noisy. Forced. Making her laugh too hard.

Time for bed, she interrupts.

No, Momma.

Come on, sweetie, she says, holding out her hand.

She gives Franny a bath, then puts on her pajamas and reads to her, snuggled up close in her warm little bed, alert to the vicious wind, the whirling snow, the black thoughtless trees. Both grateful and impatient, she watches her daughter fall asleep.

The house is quiet. She’s lost track of him. They are like animals in the woods, waiting, waiting. She tiptoes into the hall and looks down through the banister spindles. The rooms are dark, but she can smell the joint he’s lit in his study, and hears a glass clunking down on his desk, the rattle of ice.

Suddenly drained, she takes a shower, and lets the water pour over her face, her open mouth. Her whole body aches. It comes to her that she has been through something intense, these months here in this house. They have taken so much from her that she doesn’t believe she will ever be the same.

She puts on her nightgown and sits on the bed, brushing out her hair. She thinks maybe she should call someone. She doesn’t feel safe. But look at the snow, the falling sleet. She hates its icy indifference, its mindless treachery. She hates that God has trapped her in this house. She hadn’t closed the shades, and the windows reflect the perfect symmetry of the room: the bed with its two pillows, two nightstands, two lamps—and two women, one of flesh, the other of air.

Then

AT FIRST
there is the awful weight, her head impossibly heavy, her hair coated with something thick as syrup, and a blade jutting out. It is medieval, she thinks, a medieval death, but it is of no consequence to her. She doesn’t feel any pain, only amazement. She rises then and looks down at her body, draped in blood, and at the figure waiting for her in a circle of light.

Are you ready to join us?

Yes, she answers. Yes, I’m ready.

You are loved; you have nothing to fear.

A watery light leads her out, shimmering and dancing over the dreaming child. Her cold breath turns the mobile with its tiny fairies the size of thimbles in pointy hats; the music plays. The girl opens her eyes, but only for an instant. She watches the mobile, transfixed by its circular motion, and again sinks into dreams.

The field is white, the sky. The trees—they, too, are white. God’s light pouring through. Blinded by it, she disappears into the beautiful oblivion.