The Woman Next Door (29 page)

"I know what it's like to be alone, Marilyn. You left me alone, once. Do you remember?"

Marilyn felt her stomach turn over. Her gaze riveted on the deep, dark-blue gash at the side of Brett's head, close to his ear. His grin increased.

"
They
will be here with you, Marilyn."

And Greg appeared, his eyes wide and round and staring, his skin the color of eggshells; he had a stark look of surprise and weariness about him. "Mommy," he said, and Marilyn had a quick picture of herself reaching behind him and winding him up, or pulling his string. "Mommy," he repeated.

"They will
always
be with you, Marilyn."

Marilyn's head snapped from right to left. "No," she murmured. She stumbled past her husband and her son, up the stairs. On the landing she turned left. She looked back.

Greg and Brett were slowly turning to follow.

D
r.
Ticheil's
tone was apologetic: "Mr.
Bennet
, I must be truthful with you; I cannot yet adequately diagnose your wife's condition. It seems very much like a severe flu, but, even in severe cases, we rarely encounter fevers as high as hers, except in children. And when we do, the fever almost always responds to medication." He paused. "There is," he continued, "another possibility—toxic-shock syndrome. It's something relatively new, like Legionnaire's disease."

"Legionnaire's disease?" Tim was suddenly close to panic.

Tichell
explained hurriedly, "Only in the respect that it
is
new, Mr.
Bennet
, something not encountered widely until a few years ago. Christine's symptoms are almost classic—"

"Can you treat it?"

"Yes, we can, if it
is
toxic-shock syndrome. It's actually a staph infection, you see."

"Dr.
Tichell
"—he was close to panic again—"will she live, for Christ's sake?"

Tichell
put his hand comfortingly on Tim's shoulder. "I've been your wile's doctor for a long time, Mr.
Bennet
, almost fifteen years. And I've gotten to know her quite well—especially from a medical standpoint. She's a very
very
strong woman, and I think she has a strong will to live."

Tim lowered his head;
Tichell
could say no more than that, he realized.

The paging system squawked: "Dr.
Tichell
to Intensive Care . . . Dr.
Tichell
to Intensive Care. . . ."

Tichell
stood abruptly. Tim stood.

"No,"
Tichell
said. "You'll have to stay here, Mr.
Bennet
. Trust me."

Tim looked helplessly at him. "But—"

"Trust me, Mr.
Bennet
,"
Tichell
repeated. He left the waiting room quickly.

M
arilyn watched the closed door move inward slightly, heard the dull thudding noises from the other side. She put her hand to her mouth, curled her fingers up.

"Don't," she whispered. "Please!" She reached out very quickly, turned the key in the lock, withdrew the key. She backed up a step, hesitated, took another step, and another. "Don't!" She felt the back of her foot connect with something. She glanced around, saw the black . . . walnut table fall, watched the robin's-egg-blue washbasin fall with it, watched it hit the floor and shatter into a dozen large pieces. "Please," she whispered.

"Marilyn," she heard. It was Brett's voice—low, insistent, a little off-key, as if he wanted to tell her some grotesque joke.

"Mommy." Greg's voice—a high-pitched, brittle, mechanical screech.
I want
, it said.
I want, I want, I want!

Marilyn screamed, "Go away! Go away from my house!"

The door moved inward.

The dull thudding noises continued.

T
ichell
had no expression. Tim stood, waited for him to cross the room, and realized, suddenly,
Jesus, the man is wearing a poker face—something's happened!
"She's dead, isn't she," Tim called. "My wife is dead!"

Tichell
covered the remaining few feet quickly. He helped Tim into a chair. "No," he said. "No, Mr.
Bennet
. Her fever has risen slightly, that's all. A degree. Not even a degree."

"You mean you can't . . . you can't bring it back down?"

"We are doing what we can, Mr.
Bennet
. What happens from this point is as much up to Christine as it is up to anyone. I told you before, she has a strong will to live—"

"May I . . . see her?"

The doctor thought a moment. "You can look in on her, yes." Tim was immediately suspicious of the concession. Was the doctor allowing him one last look? "But please remember,"
Tichell
continued, "that she may not recognize you. She slips in and out of consciousness. And she's been babbling."

"Babbling?"

"It's not uncommon in cases of high fever, Mr.
Bennet
."

"Has she been calling for me? Is that what she's been saying—my name?"

"From time to time, yes, Mr.
Bennet
. She has said your name several times." He stood. "I'll take you to her."

Tim stood and followed him to Intensive Care.

H
e didn't like what he saw. The hospital's efforts to keep Christine alive had reduced her to something half-machine, half-human.

"I should have warned you about all this; I'm sorry,"
Tichell
said. "But without it, Christine would—"

"I understand, Doctor."

"Yes, I believe you do."
Tichell
addressed the nurse by Christine's bedside: "Has her fever stabilized?"

"It's holding at a hundred and five point five, Doctor. There's been no change in the last fifteen minutes."

Tim nodded grimly at the heart monitor above the bed; it was beeping steadily, rhythmically. "Can't you turn that thing down or something?"

"I'm afraid that wouldn't—"
Tichell
began. And Christine interrupted: "
Mith
King?"

Tim's mouth dropped open. He looked helplessly from
Tichell
to the nurse to
Tichell
; his gaze steadied on Christine. "My God," he said. "My God, what was that? That wasn't even her voice. My God." It had been the voice of a child—a very small child. "Dr.
Tichell
, please—"

"
Mith
King? I'm
thorry
,
Mith
King."

"It's a regression of sorts, Mr.
Bennet
."

"A regression? To what? I don't understand."

"To her childhood—her early childhood, I'd guess."

"Thirsty,
Mith
King. Cold,
Mith
King."

"Christ!" Tim muttered.

"Apparently she's reliving the time before her accident—the accident that paralyzed her. Before I brought you in here, she made some oblique, but unmistakable, references to walking. The accident itself was, of course, a traumatic time for her, an
extremely
traumatic time for her, and it has—"

"My dolly,
my
dolly!"

"It has stayed with her, Mr.
Bennet
—the essence of it, the flavor of it."

"I'm
thorry
,
Mith
King."

Tichell
said, "I don't know who this 'Miss King' was, but it's obvious that Christine is using her now as a kind of handhold to the past. And it's possible that the child you're listening to—locked up inside Christine all these years—is replaying events in an attempt to correct them, in an attempt to change history, so to speak."
Tichell
paused, pursed his lips. He shook his head slowly. "And it's possible, Mr.
Bennet
, that I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. I must be truthful with you—"

"Dr.
Tichell
?" It was the nurse.

"Yes?"

"Her fever's dropped. It's a hundred and four point nine now."

Tim smiled nervously. "That's good, isn't it?"

"It might be,"
Tichell
said. "You'll have to leave now."

"But—"

"Please. For her sake."

Tim left reluctantly.

M
arilyn held her breath. Listened. It had all stopped so abruptly. The house was quiet now; she could hear only an early spring rain pinging against the room's three large windows, and something—a mouse?—scurrying about inside the walls. Quiet sounds.

She stared blankly at the broken washbasin. It had been such a treasure, so beautiful, so frail, so very, very old, as old as the house itself, older maybe—

"Brett?" She said the name tentatively, cautiously. "Brett, are you there?" In fear he would answer, she hurried on: "Brett, are you there? Go away now. You have no place here. This is my house. You have the attic. Take the attic. Both of you." She moved slowly toward the door. "I'm sorry I hurt you, either of you; I
am
sorry." She put her hand on the knob, turned it. "I'm coming out now and I don't want to see you there. I don't." As she opened the door, she closed her eyes tightly. "Go away now," she said, her voice low and pleading. She opened her eyes. She saw the stained glass window at the opposite end of the hall. It was dull now; it cast no colorful pattern on the wood floor. Marilyn kept her eyes on it; she felt a tear slide down her cheek.

"D
r.
Tichell
, her fever's rising—a hundred and five."

"Oh, good Christ. I want more ice packs."

"A hundred and five point three."

"This is absolutely unbelievable."

"
Mith
King?"

T
he hands were Brett's; Marilyn knew it immediately. They touched, caressed, probed as if she were naked.

Her body stiffened under those hands; her eyes shut. She felt the hands suddenly tugging at her, heard Brett's voice:

"Come, Marilyn. Away from that room."

"D
octor, her fever's at a hundred and six."

"Get an ice bath ready, nurse."

"Yes, sir."

"We can't let this fever go any further."

M
arilyn snapped her eyes open. She thought at first that it was the stained glass window she was seeing, its dull blues and reds and yellows fused at the edges. And then she saw that the colors had form, substance, topography—here, what had been a nose; there, the places where eyes should be; and below, the dark mouth, opened as if in an endless yawn. The yawn narrowed and expanded rapidly, like the sucking motion of a fish. Words came from it: "Come away from that room, Marilyn. Come away from that room."

And Marilyn realized instantly where safety lay. She struggled desperately against Brett's strong grip.

"A
hundred and six point five, Doctor."

"Where is that damned ice bath? This woman has only moments to live!"

M
arilyn's gaze fell slowly, disbelievingly, down the length of the thing tugging at her, pleading with her, touching her. She lurched away from it, stepped to the side of it.

And saw her son at the end of the hallway.

He was waving, smiling, telling her in his gestures,
Come here!

One word—"
Nooooo
!"—escaped her, but, in its pitch and volume, it was unintelligible.

Like an automaton, she turned. And saw the open door to her room. The broken washbasin. The windows, and the soft, steady rain hugging them. The old, sturdy chair.

Safety. Security. Peace, and quiet.

She stumbled through the open door, felt a hand at the back of her housedress. "
Noooooo
!" she repeated, and wrenched free of it.

She turned again, threw her weight against the door, fumbled for the key—"Oh, God! Oh, God!"—found it, shoved it into the lock, turned it.

And crumpled, smiling, to the floor.

She was safe.
Here
she was safe.

This was her room.

A big, beautiful, airy room.

"D
octor, her fever's down to a hundred and five."

"Blood pressure?"

"Increasing. Heart rhythm normalizing."

"I don't understand any of this."

"A hundred and four now."