Trinity (14 page)

“Your mother has taken a turn for the worse,” Angelina said, looking up at him with a doleful expression. “I’m pleased you made it in time.”

In time? Whoa, what?

“She was better. A few minutes ago. She was clear and talking, and she remembered stuff.”

Angelina nodded, and checked the chart by the door. “We’d given her a shot. The shots clear her up for a few minutes. She had a bad night last night.”

Didn’t we all
, Val thought, then regretted the selfishness of the thought. “So give her another shot. I need to talk to her.”

Angelina shook her head. Somehow she made even that wordless gesture seem condescending. “It would kill her. That’s powerful medication.” She fired off some clinical terms at him, but he didn’t understand.

“None of that means anything to me,” he said. “Is this, like, it?”

Pursing her lips, Angelina gave a little half shrug. “In any other patient, I’d say yes.”

“But?”

“Her condition has been so strange, so up and down, I won’t say for sure.”

Val let out a pent-up breath.

“I think she was waiting to see you again before she died.”

She didn’t even
like
me,
Val thought.

“Should I stay?” he asked. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to alone, anyway. Kate was in the car, he could bring her in, but being alone was for the best. He wouldn’t want to be held captive while her mother died. He chastised himself for every insensitive thought. He wished he could shut his brain off.

“I would,” Angelina said. Of course she would, she’d elected to spend her life around the dying. “We can make exceptions to visiting hours in these kinds of situations.”

“Okay,” he said.

When he went back in the room Caroline was asleep or unconscious. Her breath was steady and her machines made a rhythmic beeping that replaced the hum in his head. He picked up the remote control and carried over another chair to prop his feet up on, careful not to make a sound.
Predator
was playing on one of the movie channels (she got HBO, Showtime, and Cinemax, and still she watched the shopping channel?) and he settled in to watch.

The beeping stopped right around the time when former Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura’s character got mangled by the Predator. He registered something was different in the room, but it took another second and muting the film to register what it was. The light over her bed went out, the light bulb winking to darkness, and as he stood, almost knocking over the padded hospital chair, the TV remote clattered to the floor.

Just like that?
He thought, panic seeping around the edges.

He mashed on the call button, while repeating “Mom, it’s me, wake up,” over and over again in a low voice. Hers not being the first dead body he’d seen that day, he knew she was gone but his mind had gone all flighty, touching on thoughts before lifting off again to perch somewhere else.

At least he hadn’t killed her.

He couldn’t even hold his tongue for the little time they’d had together. Angelina came in and took his hand in her own chubby one.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” he asked.

She turned to him with tears glistening in her eyes, and squeezed his hand. “No, dear.”

“Can’t you do CPR, or give her a shot or something?” He thought of movies where people were resurrected by an adrenaline shot to the heart. Surely they had something that could help her kicking around here.

Now she took him into her plump arms. He accepted the hug, standing still and limp, unsure of what else to do. She was warm and smelled medicinal, making him think of all sorts of medical experiences. “That’s not what we do here, love.” She laid her head against his chest, and he wanted to shove her off.

On the muted television, California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger smeared mud on himself as he prepared to battle the Predator.

“You’re going to let her die?” Val asked; the volume and pitch of his voice climbing.

Orange light from the street lamp in the parking lot shone through the window, casting Venetian blind stripes across the wall, dark in the low light after the bulb had blown. Had he done that?

Funeral arrangements. Who would he call? Who were her friends? Did she have friends? His T-shirt grew damp as he realized the nurse was crying on him. And what, he’d been putting off checking, was the money situation? He’d sell the trailer and the land as fast as he could, move in with Kate in Santa Fe, but he needed to buy a headstone, a casket, cremation…fuck.

“I need to sit,” he said, pushing her off and dropping to the chair. She kept a hand on his shoulder and it sat there, warm and moist. Christ, all he wanted in the entire world was for this woman to stop touching him.

“Is there someone you can call?” she asked.

Call? For what?

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“No, I really am fine.”

“I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through these past few days. You’re a brave boy.”
I’m not a fucking boy!
“At least you got to say goodbye.”

But he hadn’t. He watched a crappy old movie and let her die right there. He wasn’t holding her hand when she went, wasn’t telling her he loved her; he was captivated by the alien on TV, picking off the Army guys one by one.

Asking this woman for help was the last thing Val wanted to do. But he didn’t know. He couldn’t leave her here. He wanted to head to Cochran’s Liquor Store on Main Street, get a handle of tequila, and disappear into it.

“What do I do?” he asked, his voice a whisper.

“Poor dear,” she said, and his skin crawled under her sympathy.

He waited a moment for her to answer him, he didn’t want to repeat himself, didn’t want to feel indebted to her kindness, which infuriated him. “Where do I start?” He racked his brain, thinking of all the television shows he’d seen where someone died. “Calling a coroner?”

Again, she took him into her repulsive arms. Together, Val and Angelina began to make arrangements for his mother.

20

The truck was the only vehicle in the visitors’ parking lot. Not much light came up from Nassar Valley, some streetlights here and there, but most of the housing developments were dark. The sky loomed overhead, and Val wondered what watched him from above. There was a certain inevitability to it, something that could traverse galaxies…could you even try to fight it? Why him? He guessed
why Caroline
was the more important question.

Caroline who was dead.

Val looked in the window of the truck, saw Kate there, curled in an uncomfortable ball on the vinyl seat. One foot touched the window near his face, and he put a hand on the glass.

He could leave. Then none of this would be her problem ever again. He could disappear into the night, walking across the desert.

She stirred in her sleep, and he opened the door.

His mother was dead.

The sound of the door woke Kate up. She uncurled, stretched like a cat, making a little mewling noise and rubbing at her eyes.

“How is she?” Kate asked.

Val was suddenly robbed of his voice. He shook his head, unsure where this emotion came from, where it had been hiding.

“I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head again, a lump crawling into his throat and nesting there, setting up shop, all comfortable-like.

Val wanted to get drunk. He bought a handle of tequila at the liquor store, making it in minutes before they closed. He set it on the floor, sealed, until he pulled into the dooryard. He passed the place in the road where the hum began, and it did so, starting with just a tickle, and building to a steady vibration. In the driveway the Daytona mocked him, yellow with its evil load. Not tonight. He couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t deal with the body, the mine, any of it.

Standing under the stars in the warm night, he looked around, feeling a light breeze on his face. His mother used to have wind chimes hanging by the front door. He was glad they were gone; their hollow, musical tones unsettled him. Unbidden, he heard them and saw a great white light. What was he?

“I need to go.” His voice sounded like it hadn’t been used for a thousand years. His lips were dry. The tequila would wet them. It would block everything. It would reduce him to nothing.

“Where?” She sounded startled, and her eyes shot to the yellow car.

“I can’t do it. Not now. I have to go.” He paused, rubbed at his unshaven face. “Away. Anywhere.”

“I’m calling Felix.”

“I don’t care.”

“Please don’t go anywhere.”

“I got to be by myself. I need to think.”
And drink.
He didn’t want anything left. He unscrewed the cap, saw her lips purse—she was unsure whether or not to let him.

“I have to go,” he said again, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking in the fire of the drink. It burned his throat, like the red sea it parted for the lump of grief there, and respectfully went around. He left, touching Kate’s hair with his free hand feeling crazy and free.

Out in the night, under the mantle of stars, the sky threatened to suffocate him. So big, so black…it was everywhere. Somewhere deep inside he longed for four institution-green walls, eight feet by eight feet of security. They meet your needs in prison. In prison you start to see everything through a nicked, scratched sheet of Plexiglass. When everything was kept at arm’s length, nothing could hurt.

Had he even loved her?
Here was the nexus of the problem. If he could answer yes, then the guilt would melt away. He hadn’t been a good son, and she hadn’t been a good mother. She started it. It wasn’t his fault.

A second gulp of tequila bolstered him.

Wasn’t his fault.

Why was his face wet?

Aw, fuck.

He’d been a bad son and now it was over. It sickened him that he was feeling sorry for
himself
as opposed to his dead mother. In a way he was angry at her for leaving him like this. He
was
angry, mad at her because he felt so shitty.

He should be missing her. But you can’t miss something that’s never been there.

Val wandered, for the first time awake and wearing shoes, through the scrub brush and rocks, onto national forest land. He was not aware that he headed for the Olympus Mine. His current path would not bring him to the entrance, but it did lead him above the deepest shaft. When he got there, he knew it was time to stop.

He fell to his knees and unscrewed the tequila bottle. It felt like he was deep under water. The hum was all around him, like cotton tucking him into a box for safe-keeping. He held the bottle up to the moon, and saw the worm’s still form bobbing around. He took a long pull and wondered what the point of living was. Common sense suggested lots of reasons, but he elected to ignore them in favor of self-pity. Another slug of tequila and he stared up at the stars. There were a few clouds in the sky, and stars peeked out from behind them, glittering in the night. He exhaled, and it turned into a sob. Fuck. He didn’t want to cry anymore. Too late. Finally alone, away from everything, Val emptied himself spiritually there on the rocky ground, setting the tequila bottle down on a flat spot as he cried and howled and felt pathetic.

Val didn’t realize he was no longer alone in the desert. It came on silent paws and sat on tawny haunches. It watched. It flexed and un-flexed its three-foot claws, then put them away, watching, curling its furry crocodile tail around its feet like a cat.

Finally, when he felt empty and used up, Val raised his eyes. He was too drained to feel afraid when he looked at it, but it registered that this was what had killed TJ and the frat boy. The thing Kate saw.

Its body was covered in sleek, sorrel fur and shaped like a lion. Thick legs, thick neck. The way it sat obscured its claws, but he could see them, great knives tucked away beneath it.

Fine. Let it kill him. That would be a peachy end to a great day. He was shit. He’d been a shit son; he was a shit boyfriend; so much so that he went to jail he was so shitty at it. He wouldn’t even taste good to the thing sitting there before him. Shit pickled in tequila.

“Do you mind?” he slurred at the thing. Space Puma. That was what it looked like. Some kind of freaky mutant radiation space cat from the Alamogordo blasts.

It cocked its head and opened its mouth in a silent cry. Its mouth was a perfect circle lined with little, nasty teeth.

“Sorry,” he said to it. “You’re a dream. I can’t even fucking sleep. Let’s have one big pity party for me.” Val took a long slug of tequila. He sighed and looked at his feet. “Do you have the answer?” he asked the thing. It opened its mouth silently again. “You got some ugly teeth, cat.”

Val talked to the creature and it sat still as a stone, watching him. Protecting him? Presently Val’s talking gave way to more crying, which he hadn’t thought possible, and when he stopped again the worm didn’t have much tequila to float in. He sat in silence, watching his new imaginary friend. He wasn’t sure if it was real or not, but after all this time he was pretty sure it wouldn’t hurt him. That didn’t mean he was going to reach out and pat it, but they had a connection. They were pals.

It unfurled claws the length of its front leg. He noticed it walked on the outsides of its wrists, that the spots were calloused and black, and its claws looked very sharp, like glistening white bone in the starlight. How did it walk like that? Val was too drunk to be afraid. He was fascinated by the way its joints worked, how could its wrist still be so limber after taking the animal’s weight for running? It had three claws per foot. Its back feet looked more puma-like, more dog-like, really, the short claws didn’t seem to be retractable, and regular wear and tear from walking kept them short. It reached out to him, the claw tips wavering in front of his face. It touched him, a gentle caress that didn’t break the skin.

He stood up, his joints stiff from sitting for so long. The thing stood with him, and stepped back, looking startled and wary. “Sorry, didn’t mean to jump you. I’d best be going. I’m glad we had this talk. I’ll look you up next time my mother dies.”

Leaving the animal behind, he stumbled home.