Jack & Jill (7 page)

"I sai
d there's someone
in
here." I was alarmed at the fear in my voice; it belied the forced confidence I had managed to maintain thus far.

The fi
gure at the door did not move away, but turned its face to the side as if listening. Again, the crinkling sound, as of a freezer bag being crumpled.

Nothing about this made sense. It had
to be my father out there, but the idea that he was deliberately trying to frighten me by dressing in the costume he wore in my nightmares didn't hold water. For one, I'd given him no details about the nightmare. For another, I hadn't heard him descend the stairs. Even forgetting those irrefutable facts, what could he possibly hope to gain by dressing as the very creature I had accused him of being?

I finish peeing and eschew
ed patting myself dry or washing my hands in favor of yanking up my pants and hurrying to the door. As I fastened the button on my jeans, his voice stopped me cold.

"Open the door
, baby...I want to see..."

My throat went
dry. After a moment spared to question the wisdom of what I was going to do, I flipped the lock on the door, grabbed the handle and yanked it open.
No more running
, I told myself, teeth clenched so hard they made my jaws ache.
No more fear. This ends now, and he's given me the perfect opening to hit him, hurt him, put him down for good.

But there was no one there. I found
myself looking, not upon my father in his pathetic nightmare costume, but across an empty hall at the closet door under the stairs, a sanctuary once upon a time. There was not a sound but for the rain.

Furious, I stalk
ed down the hall and into the living room, my mouth already open and flooding with invectives.

The living room wa
s empty.

How could
he have hidden so fast? My father was old, so unless he'd stashed himself in the closet in record time, there was no way he could have moved away from the door without me seeing him.

A quick check of the closet revealed
nothing but old coats, umbrellas, muddy boots, and an old vacuum cleaner.

Confused, I mad
e my way upstairs, every step creaking beneath my feet.

Up here the atmosphere
changed from one of neglect to sadness. There were three doors in this hallway, all but one of them closed. The first was my bedroom, and here I stopped. On the wood surface of the door I could still see the adhesive residue where once had hung a yellow vinyl sign that read: STOP: NO BOYS ALLOWED, a simple, innocent message, but one that might have altered the course of my life had it been heeded. My hand found the door knob, and there it lingered. What was there to be seen beyond this door? Had bitterness led my father to strip it bare, or had sick love forced him to preserve it? And what further impact did I think seeing the room would have on me, no matter what its state? Nothing would change if I looked; even less would change if I didn't. At length, I removed my hand, content to let the question go unanswered.

The next room wa
s John's, and this door I did open.

I
t was almost as it had been the day he'd died. As in the rest of the house, the colors had faded and dust covered everything, but his bed, a mattress nestled in a red racing car frame, was still there, as were his toys. Posters of
Transformers
,
Spider-Man
, and
The Incredible Hulk
covered the walls. I recalled a lot of fun times spent in here, helping John with homework, reading, or engaging in the ultimate standoff between my Barbie Dolls and his G.I. Joes, the battles made fairer by the mutually agreed upon stipulation that Barbie be armed with some of the military man's cache. Thus, it was not unusual to have Barbie doing a stiff-legged victory dance while G.I. Joe lay spread-eagled on the floor after being blown to bits by a grenade she'd kept stashed down her panties.

Of course, I remember
ed the bad times too, for it was not possible to allow one without the other following close behind. And so I saw myself holding John as he wept, neither of us speaking, afraid to say the words aloud, to ask questions we knew no one our age could possibly answer, foremost among them always:
Why?

As I did not yet have an answer to give my brother's ghost,
I closed the door and moved on.

My father's door was open, and he wa
s there, sitting on the bed. No costume, no plastic bag, no lascivious leer. He was dressed just as he'd been when he'd admitted me into the house, and he was crying.

He ignored
my presence at the door, his attention fixed on the picture he held in his hands. It was a portrait of my mother.

"They don't understand," he moaned, stroking the picture with a tender forefinger. "Nobody does. You did though. I know you did."

Face contorted with grief, he sobbed uncontrollably and rocked slightly on the bed.

You imagined it
, I realized.
The figure at the door. Just like you imagined what happened to Sammy.

Th
e pathetic creature on the bed was no longer capable of tormenting me, nor had he any desire to do anything but wallow in self-pity.
So here,
I decided,
I will leave him.

But in doing so, I was
finally admitting an elusive truth about myself: If I was still seeing things, projections from the nightmare, then the problem was not solely to be found with the old man on the bed before me, nor was he the solution. His transgressions had merely been the catalyst for a larger problem.

Something else wa
s broken.

Quietly I mad
e my way downstairs, and though I'm not sure what motivated me to do it—perhaps some stubborn belief that my father might still someday see his way to the light—I scribbled my phone number down on a piece of old notepaper and set it on his chair in the living room.

Then I left
, with no answers, and no illusions or expectations that I would ever get a call from my childhood home.

B
ut I did.

FOURTEEN

Chris and the kids arrived home just after sundown on Sunday night, the day after I went to see my father.

There was a chill in the air that persuaded me to light the woodstove for the first time since the spring, and the house was warm, almost swelteringly so, something Chris guardedly commented on when he entered.

"Jesus, it's like a sauna in here." His face retained the same uncertain look laced with anger he'd left with, and I knew it would persist until I either proved that things had gotten marginally better since he'd left, or assured him his point had been made and taken on board.

"Temperature's supposed to drop to forty by midnight," I said, though I had heard nothing of the kind.
I was cold; I lit the stove. No great mystery.

Jenny entered behind him, head bowed, attention fixed on her cell phone, a gift from her doting father I had vehemently protested. "Hi Mom," she mumbled.

"Hey honey. How was your trip?"

"Okay, I guess." She continued on, through the living room, and up the stairs.

"She had a little falling out with Grandma," Chris said. "About the amount of time our daughter spends on that phone."

"For once, I think I'm
on your Mom's side," I said. "If we don't do something, Jenny's going to lose the ability to raise her head. People will have to kneel down to talk to her."

Chris grinned. "Joke all you want, but there's nothing more intimidating for a guy than
being in a room with two pissed-off women."

I shrugged. "So it was no better up there than it was here, huh?"

His grin faded. He looked down at the car keys in his hands. "You know how she can get."

"I
ntimately familiar."

"So...
how was your weekend? The quiet do you any good?"

"Didn't catch up on sleep, if that's what you're asking. And the nightmares haven't stopped."

"Didn't think so. Did you at least have a chance to—?"

He was interrupted
then as Sam barreled in the door, arms spread wide for a hug for which I hardly had time to prepare before he slammed into my legs and embraced my knees instead. "MOMMY!"

"Hey b
aby! Did you have fun at Grandma's?" I reached down and pried him loose, then hoisted him up into my arms.

He nodded. "Uh-huh. Are you and Daddy getting divorced?"

And right there I had the full story about what my husband and his mother had discussed. I had expected as much, but it still stung to hear it, and it annoyed me that they'd been careless enough to have had such a conversation within earshot of Sam, if not Jenny too.

I gave Chris a sour look, then reignited my smile for Sam's benefit. "Don't be silly, kiddo. Nobody's getting a divorce."

"Sure?"

I nodded. "Cross my heart."

"Okay. Did you get sleep?"

"A little," I replied, touched by his concern
, but aware that he was probably only asking because it was another subject that had been broached at his grandmother's. "Thank you, honey."

"Uh-huh," he said, and wriggled to be set free.
I set him down. "Can I watch TV? Grandma wouldn't let me watch Cartoon Network at her house."

"Why not?"

"Dunno. She said it was in...inaportimate."

"Inappropriate?"

"I guess."

"Well, no such rules here
," I said. "You go right ahead and watch whatever you want."

"Yay!
" he cheered. He raced into the living room and dove onto the couch, sending cushions flying.

"Half an hour, bud," Chris called to him. "Then bedtime. You've had a long day today."

"Awwww," Sam moaned, more because it was his duty as a child to do so, rather than out of any real regret. Then the TV bloomed to life and his expression softened as he forgot what it was he was supposed to be disappointed about.

I looked at Chris. "Real bitch
ing session, huh? And in front of the kids. Nice."

"It wasn't like that," he said, irritated. "Jenny asked me if we were getting a divorce, and Sam was there. I guess one of her friend's parents just filed a separation agreement, and the kids have been talking. It's natural for them to be concerned when they see us arguing as much as we have been."

I nodded, and leaned back against the kitchen counter. I wasn't sure if that was the whole truth or not. After all, it would hardly be a staggering change of form for his mother to badmouth me, but I let it go. Besides, after visiting my father I had decided that it was time to start working on fixing things rather than contributing further to their decay. The nightmares weren't going away, but if I didn't do something fast, my family would. And they were all I had left.

"Guess we'll have to work on that then, right?"

Chris stood about a foot away from me, a distance most couples would feel comfortable closing with a kiss, or at least an embrace. But even though it was fragile, the barrier between us was still there, so instead we just offered each other uncertain smiles.

"Right," he said, then exhaled heavily. "I'd better unload the car." He called to Sam, "Hey
lazybones, thanks for helping me with the bags!"

"Welcome," Sam called back, without looking away from his cartoon.

Chris rolled his eyes at me. "He gets that from you, y'know."

"You wish."
I smiled after him, filled, however briefly, with the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance here.

At the door, he stopped, started to say something, then shook his head.

"What?" I asked.

He stood on the threshold, looking thoughtful.
Behind him, the last of the day's light was dying. "It's stupid. Never mind."

I sighed. "If it was stupid, then you shouldn't have made a production out of it because now I
want
to know, dummy."

He appraised me for a moment, and in his eyes, instead of the anger and frustration I'd grown accustomed to seeing
of late, I saw the same dim light of hope I felt inside myself, the desperate need to keep things from slipping away.

"I was going to ask if you wanted to go out later," he said, and shrugged, as if to say:
told you it was stupid.
"After the day I've had, I could use a taste."

"Go out where?"

"I don't know. We could hit a bar in town. O' Reilly's maybe. Like we used to. Bit of nostalgia."

"We don't have a sitter."

He waved away the thought. "It'd only be for a couple of hours, and Jenny's old enough to keep an ear open for Sam."

I scoffed. "Whenever
her ears aren't plugged with her iPod, you mean. And the stove's lit. She wouldn't know what to do if it started acting up."

"Acting up, how?"

"I don't know...if the pipe overheated or something."

He started to turn away. "Forget it."

"Wait." I touched his arm, halting him. He looked from my face to my hand on his arm, which made me wonder when I had last touched him in any significant way.
Christ
, I thought,
you've been mired so deep in your own misery you haven't even realized he's sharing it.
"Okay."

A smile began to curl his lips. "Okay?"

"Yeah. But you talk to Jenny. Tell her not to touch the stove. I'll turn it off before we leave. The place will stay plenty warm until we get back."

His smile was so heartbreakingly genuine my eyes grew moist a
t the sight of it. "I'll tell her."

I nodded. "Good.
And bring your cell phone so she can contact us if she needs to."

"You got it."

"Give me half an hour or so to get cleaned up and we can head out."

"Okay."
As I watched him hurry to the car for the bags, I thought,
Definitely a chance
to save us
.

It helped that for the first time in months, I wanted to.

FIFTEEN

O' Reilly's was almost empty but for the few world-weary souls seated around the bar who stared at us as we entered as if hoping we were salvation come to spirit them away. A trio of long-haired musicians were setting up instruments on the raised stage next to the entrance, and looked distinctly unenthusiastic to be doing so, though the lead singer, fifty ye
ars of age at least, with blond hair and a rugged face, carried himself with a swagger that suggested he'd once been successful and expected to be again.

"The usual?" Chris asked as we approached the bar.

"Sure."

He ordered a Heineken for himself, and as I had sworn off alcohol (though recent events
might have excused my prodigal return), an orange juice for me. The barman, a stocky fratboy type with a pudgy face and an OSU T-shirt, looked with something like sympathy at Chris as he handed over the latter beverage, as if to say, "Good luck gettin' any tonight, man."

Chris ignored him, paid for the drinks, and we made our way to a table as far from the band, and everyone else, as we could find.

"This place has gone to hell," Chris said with a rueful sigh as he settled himself down across from me. "Remember when we used to come here with Grace and Mike? It would be jammed on a Sunday night. Now, I don't know whether it's the economy or what, but...
Jesus
."

Grace and Mike Shields had been a couple who'd lived across the street in the new development opposite ours. Mike had been an attorney, Grace a real estate agent, and between them they'd made more in a year than we could in five. Social status and financial success notwithstanding, however, we'd become friends after they locked themselves out of their house
one winter's eve and had to borrow Chris's ladder. Beer and wine had followed, became a weekly ritual, then a biweekly one, until we were practically living at their house. They had one child, Martin, who was autistic, but seemed to tolerate Sam's hyperactive attention cordially enough. The Shields' seemed to have everything, but never lorded it over us, and I was glad to have a friend in Grace, who, once you dug down a little, wasn't nearly as together as she pretended. Neither, according to Chris, was Mike. They had simply committed to the image of perfection while missing many of the vital components necessary to make it work. Among those missing requirements was fidelity, and though each had suspected the other of cheating, it wasn't until Grace walked in on Mike in bed with his paralegal—a male paralegal—that she decided it was time to dissolve the pretense, and their marriage. Mike had moved out shortly thereafter. Grace kept the house for another six months, but was rarely there, until finally it sold to a couple who apparently wanted nothing to do with their neighbors if it could be helped.

"I miss them," I said to Chris. "Good people."

"Good, but messed up," he said.

"True, but you could just as easily apply that description to us, right?"

He nodded somberly, took a sip of his beer.

I put my hand on his. "Hey, but we're far from done, right?"

His smile was not inspiring, and after a moment he said, "I just wonder what happened, you know? Fine, neither of us ended up where we hoped we'd be, but that happens to everyone, doesn't it?"

"Sure it does. It's life's biggest joke. Allow you your dreams then slam the door in your face when you're halfway to realizing them."

"I just remember things being so much better. So much less...
work
."

"Do you blame me?" I asked, and when his eyes met mine, I smiled reassuringly. "I'm asking honestly, and if you say 'yes' I won't freak out
, I promise. I know I've been a lot of the problem, but do you think I'm all of it?"

"Of course not. What's happening with you has just made it harder, that's all. I hate seeing you this way, and when you won't let me help, I feel...useless."

"I know. I didn't for a long while, but I do now. Over the past few days, I've started seeing what's been happening to me through your eyes, and the kids' eyes, and I can't stand it. What you said the other morning, about me needing help, you were right."

He looked
surprised. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to find a shrink and make an appointment."

Chris beamed. "That's great!"

"I'm not saying it'll help. I still think psychiatrists are crazier than their patients and about as competent, but I'll give it a shot. Baby steps, right?"

"Baby steps," Chris agreed, and toasted my glass with his bottle. "I'm proud of you. For trying, at least. And for the record, I don't think you're crazy. Just a little..."

"Bugshit?
"

He laughed loudly. "Let's go with stressed. We'll wait for the shrink's verdict before we downgrade your diagnosis."

"Before you get too giddy, remember therapy isn't going to come cheap."

"What do you want to do? Sell one of the kids?" He grinned wryly.

"No, I already looked into that. Ohio isn't one of the states where it's allowed."

"So what are our options?"

"We could tip some whale hunters to the location of your mom."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Gillian."

"
Or
, I can call Dan and tell him I've been sick and ask if he'll let me come back to work on Wednesday."

Chris sighed, obviously pleased that the ice over my heart had thawed. And though that wasn't entirely true, not yet, I was committed to getting there, to restoring some semblance of order in the chaos our lives had become.
When things had been good between us, they'd been very good. I wanted that again.

As the night went on
, the band painfully demonstrated why success had eluded them, and patrons more selective than we entered, heard the band, and promptly reversed their course while I measured the time in the amount of beer bottles that collected on the table. Though Chris had never been a bad drunk, nor did he seem to know when to stop. If the alcohol was there, he would keep drinking it until he passed out, threw up, or both. He claimed it was his Irish blood that gave him such a great tolerance for liquor. I preferred to think of it as a lack of discipline combined with immaturity and weak will. He also had a tendency to get emotional, and after nine beers and a shot of 151, that night was no exception.

"I love you, baby," he said, his eyes glassy, lips downturned as if his pro
clamation had been an apology.

"I know you do, and you can tell me how much on the way to the car. It's after midnight. We
told Jenny we'd be back by now. We need to get going."

He blew air out through his lips and waved a hand at me. "Home. Christ. It's early."

"Not for people with kids it isn't, and you have work tomorrow."

He shook his head in a way that reminded me of Sam. "I hate that fucking place."

"Home or work?"

"Work."

I smiled indulgently. "Since when?"

"Since always." He was starting to slur, and the words came out as
Sssince awlays
. "Ten years I'm there and I'm always the last to get any credit or recognition for anything. Fucking Kelvin Foley gets promoted twice and he's been there...what? Five years? Stubby little asshole."

"Good work always gets
recognized eventually," I said, then jolted as the lead singer yowled into the microphone and adopted a rocker stance that looked like it was going to cause him a groin injury.

"You'd think so," Chris
said, and began to pick at the soggy label on his beer bottle. "I don't know. I need a vacation. And a new job. Before I burn that fucking place down."

I couldn't help it, I la
ughed. He'd looked so sincere.

"Easy for you to laugh," he said. "Maybe I'll pull your stunt and call of
f for three weeks." He raised a hand. "No...no judgment, swear to God. Just saying. It'd be nice."

"Yeah, yeah. I have a feeling I'm going to be dealing with your not-so-subtle jabs for quite a while."