The Evening Spider (2 page)

Rowan College

Rowan, Vermont

February 20, 1998

A
ll of the doors in Davidson Hall had a distinct creak—like a dog groaning in his sleep, and then waking with an excited, rasping half yawn.

UUUUUURRRH—eeep!

A friendly old dog awakening upon your arrival.

It wasn't a ghostly sound, exactly, but more one of old-timey warmth. Revered building. Strong wood. Strong doors. Old hinges.

Welcome home.

That's how I felt about every corner of this campus. More like home than any place I'd ever been. But Davidson Hall most of all. It was the oldest dorm—maybe the oldest building—in the entire school. I loved its musty stairwells and its clinking, steaming radiators.

My stomach growled as I climbed the stairs to the second floor. I couldn't get Bon Jovi's “Bad Medicine” out of my mind. I'd just gotten an A on a political science paper and whenever I had little victories, my head wanted to play through its favorite songs from when I was ten. Pop metal was apparently hardwired into the pleasure centers of my brain.

Two doors from the stairwell. Number 202. My chunky-heeled loafers were pinching my feet and I couldn't wait to get out of them. I turned the loose doorknob and pressed against the Einstein-with-his-tongue-out poster that hung above it.

UUUUUURRRHH—eeep.

After the sound of the door, I noticed a silence in place of the sluggish “Oh . . . Hullo” that usually greeted me at that time of day.

The silence was not coming from an absence, however. It was coming from the figure on the bed—with the familiarly pale and knobby knee poking out from beneath the lilac afghan.

I approached the bed and touched the knee. Despite its cold, I was able to swallow the sensation of horror because this could not be real.
This
only happened in movies, and not to regular girls like me and certainly not to drippy girls like
her
.

After I jostled her arm and saw her face, that horror came back up my throat as a scream that I could not stop.

Haverton, Connecticut

December 1, 2014

S
hhhhh.

The sound followed so immediately after my daughter's cry that I didn't even open my eyes. Lucy was doing her saddest cry—the jagged, choking one that normally sent me flying into her room. Tonight, though, I could remain in bed, warm under the down comforter. Even over the fuzzy secondhand baby monitor we'd been using, the shushing sound was distinct and assured. Chad had apparently heard her first as I'd slept uncharacteristically deeply. A welcome role reversal, if only for a night.

Sweet,
I thought.

Shhhhh.

I smiled, wondering if Chad had picked up Lucy or was trying to settle her with just patting and reassuring from the side of the crib. It was a fool's errand with our live-wire daughter, but we still tried sometimes—in hopes that she'd one day learn how to fall asleep somewhere besides our arms or a car seat.

Shhhhh.

I tossed from my right side to my left. Upon landing on my
elbow, my gaze met the familiar hill of my husband's back. He was clad in his robe—probably because there were no clean pajamas. Lately, I'd been better about doing Lucy's laundry than our own. The thought
I need to pop in a load of shirts and underwear one of these days
somehow registered in my brain just before this more alarming one:
If Chad is here in bed with me, who is in there shushing Lucy?

Shhhhh.

I wasn't dreaming.

I threw off the covers.

“What? What is it? Wantmetogo?” Chad mumbled.

I jumped out of bed and raced down the hall—a hall whose blue-lit carpet and wall seemed endless and unfamiliar as I ran toward the sound of my pulse and my daughter's cries.

When I reached into her crib, I swiftly snatched her up. I heard a
thunk
as I did it, but a few seconds later, after my heart stopped pounding, it felt like the sound had been a product of my nervous imagination. Lucy was in my arms now. That was all that mattered.

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 20, 1885

F
ive years. That's how long it's taken you to come see me. Did you forget about me, dear brother? Or did you think—do you still think—they would not—and will not—ever let me out? Did you not want to hear my side of things, for fear I would be too persuasive?

Fear not. I barely know why I am even here—though over the years I have developed some theories. Don't I always have theories? Yet none of those theories quite explains your absence or your silence until now.

Were you afraid you might find me bald and naked in a cage? Certainly it happens here, somewhere in the back halls of this monstrous brick building—far behind the grand front rotunda and these front parlor rooms. I hear the screams, but I tend not to put pictures to them in my mind lest I begin screaming myself and end up back there with them, joining their terrible chorus. If one can manage not to rage and wail, one stands a chance of a sedate existence. Did the nurse tell you that I occasionally work in the greenhouse? It is my favorite time, if it is
possible to have a favorite of anything in this life. Many of the nurses have remarked on my delicate touch with the seedlings.

Surely, though, you did not come to hear about that.

You wish to know my side, truly?

Very well, then. Since you have taken so long to come and find me, I think it best to tell the whole story. I shouldn't want to leave anything out, since perhaps you won't return for another five years? Ten? For eternity? I have been waiting some time to tell it to you, so if you'll indulge me, I shall go back to the very beginning.

Haverton, Connecticut

December 2, 2014

I
n the light of morning—even a dreary, rainy morning like this one—and accompanied by the invigorating whir of the coffee grinder, the night's drama seemed silly, and its explanation obvious.

We had an iPod playing water sounds in Lucy's room all night long. There were four tracks on the album—waterfall, rain storm, babbling brook, and ocean waves. We'd used this recording since Lucy's very first night home from the hospital. The waves one in particular had an undertone of
shush . . . swish . . . shush
to it.

“You know what it probably was,
really
?” Chad shouted at me over the grinding of his fancy beans. He still allowed himself an espresso twice a week when his Crohn's wasn't threatening to flare.

“What's that?” I shouted back, dumping baby oatmeal into a purple plastic bowl.

“Wishful thinking,” he yelled as the grinding stopped. “Your subconscious is telling you what a better husband would have been doing in that moment.”

I snorted. “Yeah. My subconscious is a real ballbuster, I guess.”

I stepped out of the kitchen for a moment to squeeze some breast milk into the bowl. Chad doesn't know that I do this, and I'm sure it would wig him out if he did. But I am always engorged in the morning and it's such a pain to sterilize the manual pump for just an ounce or so for Lucy's cereal. Interestingly, Chad never seemed to notice that I occasionally came back into the kitchen with wet cereal when I'd left with dry. Too busy with the espresso ritual. For the best, really.

I fed Lucy her baby oatmeal, which she gobbled happily. I'd heard of babies rejecting solid food at first, but this had never been the case with our Lucy. At the first taste of it two weeks ago, her eyes had lit up at the novelty of it—and had been lighting up with each spoonful since. It was quite different from her approach to nursing—sucking in a scowling, workmanlike fashion from the very first day.

“She's got something on her nose,” I said, watching her brow crinkle with concern for the proximity of her next spoonful. One side of the top of her nose looked sore and red. “A kind of . . . ding.”

“Maybe she rolled hard into one of the crib slats,” Chad said, pouring my cappuccino foam. “She's going a little crazy with the rolling, I've noticed. She's got some WWE moves lately.”

“Yeah.” I glanced out the window at our driveway, where the puddles were dimpling with rain. Most likely there would be no walking with Lucy today.

“If she wakes up tonight, why don't you nudge me?” Chad said. “It's my turn.”

Tonight seemed so far away. Two more solid meals. Two naps for Lucy—probably on my chest. Nursing. Board books ad nauseam.
Feel the fluffy yellow chick. The pig is PINK. The strawberry
is RED.
Straining—straining so hard—not to turn on the television to speed up the long midafternoon hours. The evils of secondhand television, after all. As bad for the tiny brain as secondhand smoke is for the lungs, they say.
There is no such thing as educational programming for children under three.
It was more difficult now that the weather was getting chillier, and walks were growing unappealing and sometimes ill-advised. Annoyingly, it had been a particularly cold and rainy autumn so far.

“Okay?” Chad said.

“Okay,” I said, then gulped my coffee greedily as Chad pulled on his coat. It seemed that once Chad was gone, I always forgot to drink what was left in my cup.

Lucy was writhing in her chair, already bored with sitting. I knocked a spoon rhythmically against her tray table. She seemed mesmerized by it for a few moments—not nearly as long as I was. I was easily mesmerized these days.

“Maybe it was Florabelle,” Chad said.

“Who? What?” I said, looking up.

“Shushing Lucy, I mean.”

“Oh.” I pushed the spoon to Lucy.

Florabelle was what we called the dressmaker's dummy we'd found in the deepest depths of our house's storage space. We'd made the discovery a couple of months before Lucy was born, when we were storing stuff from the “guest room” (really the junk room, with the old futon on the floor) we'd cleared out for her nursery. It had been a funny moment—through the wall I'd heard a shout of surprise, then Chad laughing.
Abby, I want you to see this.

Ultimately, we'd decided it wasn't worth my trying to hunch my giant pregnant body into the space just to look at an old
dummy. It was a tight, dusty space with a slanted ceiling, running all along one side of the upstairs hall of the house. You had to stay hunched down quite low to walk the length of it, and if you accidentally pulled yourself up, you risked bonking your head or jabbing your shoulder on a rusty nail. Chad took a picture on his iPhone for me to see. Chad left her right where he'd found her, putting all of our old boxes at her feet. We named her Florabelle and spoke of her affectionately until Lucy was born. Then we promptly forgot about her.

I smiled. “Florabelle doesn't have a head, my dear. What would she shush with, exactly?”

“Hmm,” Chad said, twisting his mouth into a feigned look of puzzlement.

Then he picked up his travel mug, messenger bag, and plastic tub of loose pennies. For the past couple of months, he'd been doing something he called “coin roll hunting.” He bought one or two hundred dollars' worth of one coin or another, examined them for old collectibles, silver dimes or quarters, minting errors, or other oddities that made them worth more than their face value. Then he returned the remaining coins for his money back, saving the occasional special one to eventually sell on eBay.

“Back to the bank with your pennies?” I said.

“I think I'll just go ahead and trade them in for dimes.”

“Live dangerously, dear.”

“I always do,” he said and kissed Lucy and me good-bye.

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 20, 1885

I
t begins when we were children, doesn't it?

It begins with the assumption that I was, like Clara, to take after Mother and you after Father. I was to be gentle and affectionate, and you bookish and systematic.

Perhaps it didn't work out that way since we were twins. In the womb, you got some of the substance intended for me, and vice versa. Gestational medicine—is that the term for it?—has never been one of my interests, but is it not possible that things get mixed up in there and improperly distributed?

Remember when Father brought home the old microscope for you to try? It was for your—our—twelfth birthday. I received a beautiful blue dress and was appropriately grateful for it, I hope. I still remember it well—the lace collar and the mother-of-pearl buttons. Thankfully, though, you were perfectly willing to share
your
treasure—more than I could mine.

At first, I was only allowed to fetch tree bark and feathers outdoors and dead moths from the cupboards, bringing them to you as we imagined Father's lab assistant would.

Within a week you grew bored of the game, the microscope,
and my constant company in its presence. You returned to your friends and to kicking a ball up and down the street in the afternoons.

I became my own assistant. The first thing I looked at was a dandelion pappus. Yes, the pappus is the fluffy crown—I have a good memory for these things. Its tufts are a hundred times more beautiful up close—each one a radiant sun. Not every object I found was so brilliant as a dandelion's pappus, of course. But nearly everything seemed to offer a hidden, if subtle, surprise. How I adored my stolen time at your desk.

Mother allowed it as long as she thought I was looking at things beautiful and delicate—flower petals and blades of grass. She didn't know how I loved to look at scabs and fingernails and the wings of dead flies. Even Father did not know that. Even you.

You did not know how beastly your sister was, did you?