The Doctor's Wife (58 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
Theresa takes the pen and studies the photograph and begins circling. She gives the page to Annie, who studies the faces carefully, each one urgent with purpose. A small, shrunken figure stands in the shadows. If it weren’t for Theresa’s black circle, she might not have even noticed her, but now that she has, everything comes clear.
The woman is Lydia Haas.
76
SUPINE ON THE MATTRESS, Michael hears a familiar sound coming from outside. Two sounds that make a rhythm. Ah, yes, he knows. Someone is digging. He has the distant memory of Annie out in the garden, planting bulbs for spring. A shovel, that’s what it is. Going into the soil, then coming out again. Making a great big hole.
He pulls himself up, realizing that his legs have gone aquiver. Holding on to the cold cinder-block wall, dragging the chain behind him, he explores the parameters of the cellar, desperate to find a window. Cobwebs stick to his fingers as he traces the cold walls in the darkness. He discerns the texture of plywood, feels the cold air swarming all around it. A window underneath, he surmises, pulling the wood board off with his bare hands, ignoring the splinters pricking his fingertips. Light streams in and his hands sweep the cold glass; his eyes feast on the outside world, drinking in the colors of the distant trees. He blinks, his eyes stinging and blurred. And then he sees her. She’s digging a grave.
“There’s no hope for us now,” she tells him later in a state of agitation. “Your wife is pregnant.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You know?”
“I’m her husband. Of course I know. We’ve been trying to have a third.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not
yours.
”
yours.
”
“Of course it’s mine,” he says, and he believes it.
“Prove it.”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes
all
the difference.” Breaking into tears, she drops to the floor and beats her fists into the cement like a small child having a tantrum. “Do you have any idea what it feels like? He doesn’t love me anymore.”
all
the difference.” Breaking into tears, she drops to the floor and beats her fists into the cement like a small child having a tantrum. “Do you have any idea what it feels like? He doesn’t love me anymore.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” he says, wanting only to placate her.
“What do I have to do?” she shouts. “What do I
fucking
have to do?” Producing a pair of scissors from her apron pocket, she holds it up with menace like a threat, then uses it on herself, slicing off her hair. The locks fall to the floor, ragged as feathers. “There,” she says, satisfied, appeased. “Do you like it? Do you think it’s pretty?”
fucking
have to do?” Producing a pair of scissors from her apron pocket, she holds it up with menace like a threat, then uses it on herself, slicing off her hair. The locks fall to the floor, ragged as feathers. “There,” she says, satisfied, appeased. “Do you like it? Do you think it’s pretty?”
Her hair looks haphazard and deranged, but he says, “Yes, I think it’s very pretty.”
“I don’t believe you.” She sings the taunt.
“It’s very pretty, Lydia.”
“I want you to
convince
me.” She tugs at the hem of her dress, then turns it up in her fingers. She’s showing him her underpants, which are flowered and childish, like Rosie’s. “I have an inny.”
convince
me.” She tugs at the hem of her dress, then turns it up in her fingers. She’s showing him her underpants, which are flowered and childish, like Rosie’s. “I have an inny.”
“A what?”
“My belly button. Do you want to touch it? Do you want to put your finger in it?”
“No.” His stomach turns. “I would not.”
But she comes nearer. “Don’t you want to touch me?”
He is thinking about the scissors in her pocket. Now she is pulling off her dress. “Lydia, what are you doing?”
“I know you want to.” Her body is delicate, frail. Nearly emaciated. A girl’s body. “Don’t lie. Everyone wants to touch me.” She runs his hand over her belly, up her torso to her tiny breasts, her neck, the bones of her face. Abruptly, she drops to her knees. Somewhere deep inside his brain he thinks of grabbing the scissors and cutting open her throat, but now she has ventured into his pants and is trying to put his disinterested penis into her mouth. Frustrated, she grins at him imploringly. “No wonder she’s fucking him.”
“Get out.” He shoves her hard away from him and she falls back on the hard cement and bumps her head. She starts to bleed.
She laughs. She laughs and laughs. “Oh, I’ll get out,” she says, “I’ll get out all right. And you’ll be lucky if I ever come back!” The lantern swoops in her hand as she flees up the stairs, slamming the door behind her. Then comes the sound of hammering, all around the doorframe, one nail after another while she mutters and curses—a madwoman’s harangue. The door quavers with each blow and over the next several minutes of continuous pounding it becomes exceedingly clear to him that she has no intention of coming back.
77
MUDDLED WITH SLEEP, Simon hears a car pulling up the driveway. The rattling diesel tells him it’s Lydia. She leaves the engine idling and storms into the house, making a lot of noise. He looks at the clock: three A.M. After so much whiskey, his head feels bruised and dim as a turnip. The smell of cigar smoke floats up into the room. Pulling himself up, he realizes that he’s afraid of her. Now she is on the stairs. And now she is in the room, standing at the foot of their bed. He has never seen his wife smoke a cigar before and he doesn’t approve of it. Women have no business smoking cigars. “What are you doing? What do you want?” He braces himself for something, he does not know what. And her face breaks open with a smile.
“I hear congratulations are in order.” She hurls the lit cigar at his naked chest.
Struck by the burning ash, he jumps and rolls around on the bed, trying to retrieve the cigar. “Jesus fucking Christ! What are you trying to do, burn the house down?” He puts it out in his water glass.
“What do you think I am,
stupid
?”
stupid
?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t fucking
know
?”
know
?”
“I have no idea what—”
“Now everything’s ruined,” she blubbers. “Ruined!”
Before he can even respond, she’s gone, her car racing off down the driveway.
Wearily, he pulls on his trousers, his shirt. What time is it now? Three-twenty. Groggily, he staggers into the bathroom to urinate, wash his face.
“I hear congratulations are in order.” What the fuck is she talking about?
“I hear congratulations are in order.” What the fuck is she talking about?
He calls the detective and tells him about the visit. Then he gets into his car and drives around looking for her. At a loss, he drives down to his studio. It’s not until he’s there, standing in front of the painting of Annie, that he realizes what she meant.
78
“I HAVE A GUN,” Lydia Haas says, waking Annie out of a deep sleep. The room is dark, splotched with moonlight. Annie sees her standing there in a red wool coat. She sees the gun and her heart lurches and jolts.
“Get up.”
“What do you want?” Annie gets out of bed, grateful that she’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and Michael’s thick socks.
“It makes me sick just to look at you,” Lydia says.
Everything slows down. Annie’s mouth goes dry.
“Let’s go. We’re going for a ride.” Annie moves into the hall, past the empty rooms of her children, then sinks, on shaking knees, down each step. “I need my shoes,” she says haltingly, trying to figure out a plan. “I need my coat.”
“Hurry up,” Lydia says, moving closer with the gun. Annie pulls on her coat and steps into her winter boots, her mind scrambling. “I’m right here, you feel that? I have a very powerful gun and I’m an excellent shot. I’m especially good with moving targets. Don’t tempt me to pull this trigger.”
They walk through the dark to Lydia’s car. “You’re driving. The key’s in there.” Annie gets behind the wheel. Gravity presses down, her body stiff, rigid. She has never been so terrified in her life. Lydia climbs into the back and puts the gun to the nape of Annie’s neck. “Back out. Get on 66 going north.”
Annie does what Lydia asks and gets on Route 66. The car reeks of cigarettes. The snow falls heavily, making it hard to see. Up ahead, a group of deer crosses the road and she can feel the tires slipping when she brakes.
“You make me want to puke,” Lydia says. “You make me want to throw up.”
“Look, obviously you’re upset.”
“I don’t know what he sees in you.”
“I can’t change what happened. But it’s over. It’s been over for a long time.”
“It’s not over! Don’t you lie to me! Don’t you tell me it’s over when I know very well that it’s not.”
“But it is.” Annie can barely get the words out, her voice almost pleading. “I haven’t spoken to him in weeks.”
“Lies! All lies!”
“Look, look, calm down. Please! This isn’t right. You don’t have to do this. It happened, I admit it. It just happened.”
“Nothing just happens! You thought about it. You made a
decision.
Whatever happened to self-control? It was one of my old shrink’s favorite subjects.
Exercises self-control.
You should have tried a little harder, Mrs. Knowles, because fucking my husband was the biggest mistake of your life.”
decision.
Whatever happened to self-control? It was one of my old shrink’s favorite subjects.
Exercises self-control.
You should have tried a little harder, Mrs. Knowles, because fucking my husband was the biggest mistake of your life.”
“You’re right,” Annie says, trying desperately to placate her. “I know. I realize that now.”
“Now is too late for you. Jesus is very angry. Turn right onto 20. Go down to the interstate. We’re going north.”
The highway is open. Annie thinks of pulling over somewhere, but there are few stops on this road, a bleak rural landscape. Lydia smokes continuously, and the smell of it makes Annie sick to her stomach. She is acutely aware of her pregnancy, every inch of her body expressing life.
“Where are we going?” Talking is better than silence.
“To pay someone a visit.”
“But it’s snowing. The road is very slippery.”
“This person is worth the effort. I think you’ll want to see him. Unfortunately, he’s not himself these days. He’s been in a bit of an accident.”
“What did you say?”
“There’s nothing to worry about. He’s recovering nicely. I’m taking very good care of him.”
The words suddenly unscramble in her head. She’s talking about Michael.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
79
THE WORLD LOOKS DIFFERENT from the backseat, Lydia thinks, holding a handkerchief up to her bleeding nose. Surreal. The way the trees hunker and shimmy. She used to get nosebleeds as a child, she remembers. Her hands filling up with her own blood. It was scary at the time. But not anymore. Now she’s a grown woman. She’s not afraid of things like that.
No need to feel any pain now, she thinks, the pills blossoming inside her like little buds. Pretty little flowers. No need to feel anything.
She pushes the gun a little harder into the back of Annie’s neck. “Turn down that lane. See that house? Park over there. We’ll go in the front.”
It is amazing to Lydia how much power a gun has. It’s a mental thing, what Reverend Tim used to call the Fear Factor. The little movie of premonition the person experiences when they’ve got a gun at the back of their neck.
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