Love Gone Mad (13 page)

She glances at her shopping list. It’s her usual routine. She’ll wind her way through aisles she long ago memorized and grab pretty much the same items as always, and she’ll end up at the dairy section. But she’s aware she’s in a rush and can’t wait to get out of the store.

She heads for the fruit and vegetable section first, picks out some lettuces for a salad—packaged cores of prewashed romaine and one of baby lettuces—and selects a cucumber and a clump of radishes. She doesn’t even bag them in plastic—just tosses them into the cart.

Megan glances up, feeling tense, jumpy. She scans the other shoppers—mostly women, a few preschoolers, and some retired older men filling idle time by shopping for their wives.

She makes her way to the center of the store. Marlee’s running low on Apple Jacks, the only breakfast cereal she’ll eat. Megan tosses two boxes of cereal into the cart and moves to the next aisle.

She passes a sky-high facade of shelves stacked with Pringles, Utz chips, Fritos, Doritos, and Tostitos, wheels the cart past an endless assortment of sugary soft drinks in bottles and cans, and then heads for the pasta aisle, tosses two boxes of Barilla penne into the cart, and grabs a bottle of Colavita olive oil.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. She feels, rather than sees, a shadow behind her, and a cold, sickening feeling pervades her. Her insides shudder. She whirls around.

A woman with a shopping cart peers at the shelves. Behind her, a perplexed-looking man with a furrowed brow holds a box of linguine, staring at it with that befuddled-husband-who-never-really-shops look. Megan turns and peers in the other direction. There’s no one there. An internal humming begins in her chest, and she knows she’s pumped herself into fight-or-flight mode; she’s shooting adrenaline into every part of her being.

She rolls her cart to the next aisle. She’s certain someone was behind her only a moment ago. Or was it her imagination, her overprimed, hyperattuned expectation, knowing Conrad’s back in Connecticut? God, she feels brittle, as though if she fell to the floor, she’d shatter into a thousand pieces.

Megan feels this strange tingling sensation around her lips and at her fingertips—a low-level electric buzz. She knows she’s hyperventilating, sucking air in and out, and if it continues, she’ll be light-headed and fall into a faint. And now her chest heaves like an air bellows. A bristly rush spreads through her. She slows her breathing, willfully controls her intake of air, and closes her eyes for a few moments. Calmer now, she decides to pick up the other items and head home.

About to head toward the dairy section, Megan sees a shadow out of the corner of her eye. Her stomach drops. She abandons her cart and slips over to the next aisle.

Suddenly, there’s a crashing sound. Voltage shoots through her body; she spins around. A woman stands over a pile of display cans her shopping cart has knocked to the floor. Megan’s knees wobble and her body feels weak, as though she’ll keel over. Her lips feel numb, and without another thought, she heads for the supermarket’s exit. For a moment, she thinks of going back for her cart, but her heart pumps violently and she’s on the verge of collapse.
The hell with the cart
, she thinks without another second of hesitation and rushes out the doors to the parking lot.

Breathless, she threads her way between Beemers, Escalades, and Suburbans ranging in color from Tuscan bronze to vanilla latte. The black pickup is still sitting there; it rumbles ominously in place amid a bluish cloud of fumes. Megan feels the blood drain from her head as she fumbles with her car keys; she nearly drops them and knows she can’t get out of this place fast enough.

I just want to get out of here. I want to get home
.

She hits the remote, unlocks the Fiesta’s doors, gets behind the wheel, and locks the car doors. She clutches the steering wheel and, suddenly, her fingers cramp. She turns the key, starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking spot.

At the exit leading onto the Post Road, she looks left and right, realizing she’s near the spot where she and Adrian were nearly killed by the maniac in a huge black pickup, just like the one in the parking lot. Traffic is heavy—vehicles pour down the Post Road in a honking rush; she’ll never make it out in time to cross over for a left turn. She’ll have to wait until the light down the road turns red before pulling out. She feels so edgy, so completely amped, she’s tempted to hit the gas pedal and lunge into traffic heading west in the lane closest to her. She can then make a series of right turns and get back onto the Post Road heading in the right direction.

She waits for a break in the traffic as her heartbeat rampages through her. Cars flow in an unending stream of horns and exhaust fumes. Drivers cruise bumper to bumper in the early-autumn brilliance. She squints in the near-blinding glare of light bouncing off this shimmering vehicular procession. Her eyes dart in each direction of the fast-food-franchise-filled Post Road—a commercial artery of on-the-run eateries: Taco Bell, Wendy’s, Boston Market, and scores more.

Glancing into the rearview mirror, Megan sees it: the black pickup is right behind her. A jolt of galvanic tension ramps through her body. The thing is massive, with a sky-high cab, chromed grill, and growling engine. She can’t see into the darkened front windows. Her heart sends a heated rush of blood into her face. Then she’s aware of a tight feeling, like a clenched fist inside her chest.

The light changes.

She turns onto the Post Road, heads east, and stays in the left lane. She glances into the mirror and sees the pickup lunge onto the Post Road. It’s behind her, following closely. Her heart tumbles and her hands curl tightly around the wheel. She realizes she’s driving erratically—one eye on the road, the other in the mirror. She may even have run a red light, but she isn’t sure. The pickup’s still behind her in the shimmering glare. She reaches into her purse for the cell phone and pulls it out.

Dial 911? And say what to the police? There’s a pickup following me on the Post Road? It’s ridiculous.

There’s a sudden horn blast. She’s veering into a car on the westbound side. Jolted, Megan yanks the steering wheel to her right and straightens out. Shaking, she drives on and tells herself not to look into the mirror, but glances up and sees the pickup turn suddenly off the Post Road. Her breath flutters in relief; her fists loosen on the steering wheel.

Megan heads home, feeling damp and weak.

I
t’s sunday, a late-afternoon October dinner at Erin and Bob’s house. Adrian realizes that this get-together reminds him of those Sunday-afternoon dinners at Dad’s sister’s house in Hempstead, Long Island. Though he was only four or five at the time, he has hazy memories of Dad driving from their modest attached house in Ozone Park, Queens, taking the Cross Island Parkway to the Southern State Parkway and then heading east to the Hempstead exit.

A boisterous throng of aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered around a large table at Uncle Al and Aunt Bea’s ranch house, a short distance from the Southern State. Adrian recalls the festive Thanksgiving dinner only a few months before Dad died. Everyone watched Dad carve the turkey. Adrian sometimes jokes that his surgery career was inspired by watching his father slice the bird that day. He recalls the laughter. Most of all, Adrian remembers the
feelings
of that November afternoon. He was part of a family.

He feels it today—a sense of connectedness with Megan, Erin, Bob, Marlee, and Marlee’s younger cousins, Robert and Ellie. Marlee and her cousins are playing with Sampson in the living room. The little pug yaps furiously.

Puccini arias play on the sound system. That’s Megan’s doing, Adrian thinks, as the melody soars through the house. An intense feeling of well-being seeps through him as he sips a robust Barolo wine. Erin sets a roast beef–bedecked platter onto the table.

“Let’s have the good surgeon carve the roast,” Bob says.

“What’s your fee for this surgery?” jokes Erin, handing him the carving knife.

“I think Bob should do it,” Adrian says.

“No way, Doc. I defer to you.”

“Come on, Adrian,” urges Erin. “Just
do
it.”

“Yes, Adrian, we’d like to see your surgical technique,” Megan says. “Your fee for services comes later.” She grabs his hand and squeezes.

D
inner is over. The kids play again with Sampson in the living room.

“We have an announcement,” Bob says, and he clinks a spoon against his wineglass.

“Yes, we do,” Erin rejoins. Her cheeks look flushed.

“We won’t be moving to Hartford,” says Bob. “I’m staying with Sikorsky.”

“Bob won’t tell you because he’s too modest,” Erin says, her eyes shining. She stands behind her husband and sets her hands on his shoulders. “He got a huge promotion—with appropriate compensation, of course—and we’re staying put.”

“That’s
great
,” Megan says and claps her hands together. “I’m so happy for you.” She grabs Adrian’s hand, moves it to her lap.

“Congratulations, Bob,” Adrian adds.

“So then we’re all staying here in Eastport,” Erin says.

“That’s another reason I’m glad,” Adrian says, caressing the nape of Megan’s neck. She leans closer to him. His arm goes around the back of her chair; he rubs her shoulder.

Erin nods, casts a Cheshire-cat smile at Megan, and glances at Bob. He barely smothers a knowing smile. “Here’s to you two,” Bob toasts, raising his glass.

“Here’s to the future,” Erin says, grabbing her wineglass. They clink glasses. Adrian looks into Megan’s eyes; she purses her lips in a mock kiss.

Sampson scuttles around the living room, the kids crawling after him. An aria from
La Bohème
drifts through the house. There’s laughter, congratulations, and some jokes. Bob pours more wine, the kids giggle and yell, Sampson yaps, and Adrian realizes that this is what he wants: family.

“Any new developments?” Erin asks.

It’s been unspoken, but Adrian knows they all worry about it.

Megan shakes her head; her lips look thin, bloodless.

“He’s keeping a low profile,” Bob says. “That’s Conrad—a
very
smart guy.”

“Yes, he is,” Megan says. “You know, he once took a car engine apart and reassembled it just for fun.”

“Yeah,” Bob says. “I once explained force vectors to him and soon he was talking like an engineer.”

The kids turn on the TV; it mixes with another rousing Puccini aria: a soprano, a tenor, and SpongeBob.

“Why can’t they arrest him?” Erin asks.

“Because he hasn’t
done
anything,” says Megan, her voice brittle.

“Oh, he’s doing plenty,” Bob says. “Just nothing the police can act on.”

“I’ll tell you what he’s
really
doing. He’s making my life hell. I cringe every time I open my e-mail.”

“Has he sent any more?” asks Erin.

“He doesn’t have to. Even on my home computer, I hate opening my e-mails. And when the telephone rings, I jump out of my skin.”

Adrian clasps her hand. It feels cold and damp.

“I pass the flower shop near the hospital and my stomach does flip-flops. Every time I see a pickup, my heart pounds. I’m just … I don’t know. I’m on the lookout everywhere—the Trumbull mall, the supermarket, leaving the hospital, especially that indoor garage. I can’t tell you how many times I thought I saw him in a parking lot, at the CVS or Staples, the library—everywhere. I just know he’s around, following me. I don’t feel safe in the apartment anymore. It’s the first floor, glass doors to the patio, lots of windows and skylights … Anyone can break in.”

“Your friend Ann at the hospital, she must have some advice,” says Erin.

“I don’t even want to tell you what she says.”

“Oh, c’mon, Megan.”

Megan closes her eyes, shakes her head. “She says I should get a gun.”

“You’re
kidding
,” Erin says.

Adrian feels his insides cringing.

“You renewed the restraining order,” says Erin. “Can’t the police do anything?”

“He has to make
contact
before he violates the order,” Adrian says. “They can’t arrest him for what he
might
do.”

“Who says?”

“Chief Mulvaney said the police are powerless.”

Erin shakes her head. “It’s like waiting for the hammer to fall.”

“There’s nothing I can do. I’m stuck.”

“You just have to be careful, Megan,” says Erin. “And make sure you always have your cell phone with you.”

“God, this is scary. I’m so creeped out.”

“T
he baby otters are so cute,” Marlee says as they leave the Norwalk Maritime Aquarium. “But I didn’t see Ariel anywhere.” She looks up at Megan. “Mom, I think your hair’s more beautiful than Ariel’s.”

“I agree,” Adrian says.

“Is she more beautiful than Ariel?” Marlee asks, wide-eyed.

“Definitely. She’s far more beautiful.”

“Is she the most beautiful woman in the whole world?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Stop it, you two,” Megan says, smothering a self-conscious smile.

“And when you grow up, you’ll be beautiful, too,” Adrian says.

“Will I be as beautiful as my mom?” Marlee asks with a giggle.

“Yes, you’ll be just as beautiful.”

Marlee looks up at Adrian, grabbing his right hand and Megan’s left. “Give me a ride,” she says with a smile.

Still walking, they swing her between them as they cross the parking area. It’s a warm, breezy Saturday for late October, six days since the dinner at Erin and Bob’s house. The air smells of brine and kelp from Long Island Sound. A ship’s horn croons in the distance.

Megan stops suddenly. “Look at
that
,” she says.

A huge black pickup truck is parked nearby. A Ford F-250 with a gleaming steel toolbox behind the cab.

Adrian’s heart throbs in his neck; then something tunnels through his chest.

“That’s
it
,” Megan says in a trembling voice.

“Mommy, what do I do with this gum?” asks Marlee.

“In a second, honey,” Megan says, staring at the truck.