On Mystic Lake Part 14

He was lying in a narrow, metal-rimmed bed. Fluorescent tube worms crisscrossed the ceiling, sending blinding pyramids of light into the white-walled room. A bright yellow privacy curtain hung in folds from ceiling to floor.

He closed his eyes and thumped back onto the narrow bed, flinging an arm across his face. He felt like s.h.i.+t. His head hurt, his eyes ached, his mouth was dry, and his stomach felt as if it had been sc.r.a.ped clean by a rusty scalpel. His whole body was shaking and weak.

"So, Nicholas? You back among the living?"

All in all, it was not a good sign to wake up in a hospital bed with your boss standing beside you. Even worse when that boss was as close to a father as you'd ever known.

Joe had offered Nick the first real home of his life. Nick had been young and scared and ready to run; his mother had taught him early that policemen were the enemy. But he'd had nowhere else to go. His mother's death and Social Services had given him no options.

You must be Nicholas, Joe had said that day. Joe had said that day. I've got a I've got a spare bedroom . . . maybe you wouldn't mind hanging out spare bedroom . . . maybe you wouldn't mind hanging out with me for a while. My daughters have all gotten married with me for a while. My daughters have all gotten married and Louise-my wife-and I are sorta lonely. and Louise-my wife-and I are sorta lonely. And with those few welcoming words, Joe had shown Nick the first frayed edges of a new life. And with those few welcoming words, Joe had shown Nick the first frayed edges of a new life.

Nick pushed up to his elbows again. It hurt to move; h.e.l.l, it hurt to breathe. "Hey, Joe."

Joe stood quietly beside the bed, staring at Nick through sad, disappointed eyes. Deep wrinkles lined his forehead and bisected his round, dark-skinned cheeks. Long, gray-black hair hung in two skinny braids that curled against the blue checked polyester of his s.h.i.+rt. "You were in a car accident last night. Do you remember it? Joel was driving."

Nick went cold. "Christ. Did we hurt anyone?"

"Only you . . . this time."

Nick sagged in relief. He rubbed a trembling hand over his face, wis.h.i.+ng he could take a shower. He smelled like booze and smoke and vomit. The last thing he remembered was taking a drink at Zoe's-his fourth, maybe. He couldn't remember getting into Joel's car at all.

With a high-pitched sc.r.a.ping sound of metal on linoleum that almost deafened Nick, Joe pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. "You remember the day we met?"

"Come on, Joe. Not now-"

"Now. I offered you everything I had to give. My home, my family, my friends.h.i.+p-and this is what you give me in return? I'm supposed to watch you turn into a drunk? If Louise-G.o.d rest her soul-were alive, this would kill her. You blacked out, you know." I offered you everything I had to give. My home, my family, my friends.h.i.+p-and this is what you give me in return? I'm supposed to watch you turn into a drunk? If Louise-G.o.d rest her soul-were alive, this would kill her. You blacked out, you know."

Nick winced. That was bad. "Where?" It was a stupid question, but it seemed important.

"At Zoe's."

Nick sank back onto the bed. In public. He'd blacked out in public. "Jesus Christ," he moaned. He could have done it in front of Izzy.

He didn't want to think about that. He threw the covers back and sat up. At the movement, his stomach lurched and his head exploded. He cradled his head in his hands and leaned forward, staring at the floor through burning eyes until he could breathe again.

"Nicholas, are you all right?"

Slowly, he looked up. It came back to him in bits and pieces: Sally Weaver . . . all that blood . . . Chuck's wailing voice, it's not my fault. . . . it's not my fault. . . . "Remember when you talked me into going into the academy, Joe? You told me I could help people like my mother. . . ." "Remember when you talked me into going into the academy, Joe? You told me I could help people like my mother. . . ."

Joe sighed. "We can't save 'em all, Nicholas."

"I can't do it anymore, Joe. We don't help people. All we do is clean up bloodstains. I can't . . . not anymore. . . ."

"You're a d.a.m.n fine cop, but you have to learn that you can't save everyone-"

"Are you forgetting what I came home to last year? h.e.l.l, Joe, I can't save anyone. And I'm sick to f.u.c.king death of trying." He climbed out of bed. He stood there like an idiot, swaying and lurching in a feeble effort to stand still. His stomach coiled in on itself, just waiting for an excuse to purge. He clutched the metal bed frame in boneless, sweaty fingers. "You'll be getting my resignation tomorrow."

Joe stood up. Gently, he placed a hand on Nick's shoulder. "I won't accept it."

"It's killing me, Joe," he said softly.

"I'll agree to a vacation-for as long as you need. I know what you're going through, and you don't have to do it alone. But you do have to stop drinking."

Nick sighed. Everyone said that. I know what you're I know what you're going through. going through. But they didn't know; how could they? None of them had come home to his blood-spattered bedroom. Even Joe, who had been a full-blown alcoholic before his eighteenth birthday, and who had grown up in the blackened, marshy shadow of a drunken father. Even Joe couldn't completely understand. "You're wrong, Joe. In the end, we're all alone." But they didn't know; how could they? None of them had come home to his blood-spattered bedroom. Even Joe, who had been a full-blown alcoholic before his eighteenth birthday, and who had grown up in the blackened, marshy shadow of a drunken father. Even Joe couldn't completely understand. "You're wrong, Joe. In the end, we're all alone."

"It's that kind of thinking that got you into this mess. Believe me, I know the alcoholic-kid's code: don't tell, don't trust. But you've got to trust someone, someone, Nicholas. There's a whole town here that cares about you, and you have a little girl who thinks you hung the moon. Stop thinking about what you've lost, and think about what you have left. You want to end up like your mother, half starved on a park bench, waiting to be killed? Or maybe you want to be like me-a man with two beautiful daughters who moved to the East Coast to get away from their drunken father." He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Nick. "When you're ready to sober up, here's the number for you to call. I'll help you-all of us will-but you have to take the first step by yourself." Nicholas. There's a whole town here that cares about you, and you have a little girl who thinks you hung the moon. Stop thinking about what you've lost, and think about what you have left. You want to end up like your mother, half starved on a park bench, waiting to be killed? Or maybe you want to be like me-a man with two beautiful daughters who moved to the East Coast to get away from their drunken father." He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Nick. "When you're ready to sober up, here's the number for you to call. I'll help you-all of us will-but you have to take the first step by yourself."

"You look like warmed-over s.h.i.+t soup."

Nick didn't even look at Annie. "Nice language. They teach you that at Stanford?"

"No, but they did teach me not to drink and drive."

He glanced around, ran a shaking hand through his dirty, tangled hair. "Where's Izzy?"

"Ah, so you do remember her."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Annie-"

"We-your daughter daughter and I-were worried about you last night. But you don't care about that, do you?" and I-were worried about you last night. But you don't care about that, do you?"

Suddenly he was tired, so tired he didn't think he could stand up much longer. He pushed past her and stumbled out of the building. Her Mustang was parked in the loading zone in front of the electronic gla.s.s doors. Half falling, he grabbed onto the cold metal door handle and stood there, his eyes closed, concentrating on each breath.

He heard her walk past him. Her tennis shoes made a soft scuffing sound on the cement. She wrenched her car door open, got inside, and slammed the door shut. He wondered dully if she had any idea how loud it sounded to a man whose head was ticking like a bomb ready to go off.

She honked the horn, and the sound sliced painfully through his eardrums. He opened the door and collapsed onto the red vinyl seat with a haggard sigh.

The car lurched onto the rutted road. She sped up at every b.u.mp and pothole in the road, Nick was sure of it. He clung to the door handle for dear life, his knuckles white and sweaty.

"I spoke with your police captain, Mr. Nation, while you were getting dressed. He told me you were taking some time off from the force. And he mentioned your blackout."

"Great."

She made a low, whistling sound. "And what's that on your s.h.i.+rt front? Vomit? Yes, yes, what a high time you must have had yourself. G.o.d knows, it's better than being at home with your daughter."

He winced and closed his eyes, feeling shame sink deep into his gut. Joe's words came back to him. You want to You want to end up like your mother? Or maybe you want to be like end up like your mother? Or maybe you want to be like me? me? He thought about Izzy, and how she would remember him, and where she would go when she had the chance . . . he thought about what it would be like if she left him. He thought about Izzy, and how she would remember him, and where she would go when she had the chance . . . he thought about what it would be like if she left him.

He slanted a look at Annie. She was sitting perfectly erect, her hands precisely placed at the ten o'clock and two o'clock positions on the steering wheel, her gaze focused on the empty road in front of them. "Would you do me a favor, Annie?"

"Of course."

"Take me to the Hideaway Motel on Route Seven," he said quietly. "And watch Izzy for a few days."

She frowned. "The Hideaway? It's a dump, and why-"

He felt as if he were treading water in the deep end of a swimming pool full of dark, murky water. He couldn't handle an argument; not now. "Please don't argue with me. I need some . . . time."

She cast a quick, worried look at him, then turned back to the road. "But Izzy-"

"Please?" The word came out soft and swollen, unmanly, but he couldn't help it. "Could you please stay with her while I get my act together? I know it's a lot to ask . . ."

She didn't answer, and for once the silence was uncomfortable. After a mile she flicked on her signal and turned off the highway. Within minutes, she had pulled into the parking lot at the Hideaway Motel. A neon sign flickered in the window. It read: SORRY. VACANCY. That pretty much summed it up.

"Here we are, Nick. I don't know . . ."

"Home sweet home," he said, smiling weakly.

She turned to him then, and there was a softness in her expression that he hadn't expected. She leaned toward him, gently brushed the hair from his eyes. "I'll help you. But you'd better not screw up this time, Nicky. That beautiful child of yours doesn't need to lose her daddy, too."

"Christ, Annie," he whispered in agony.

"I know you love her, Nick." She leaned closer. "Just meet me halfway. Trust me. Or better yet, trust yourself."

Even as he told himself he'd fail again, he didn't care. He wanted the second chance she was offering. He was tired, so tired, of being lonely and afraid. The words I want I want to try to try weighed heavily on his tongue, but he hadn't the strength to give them a voice. He could remember too many other times he'd wanted a chance . . . and the times his mother had said, weighed heavily on his tongue, but he hadn't the strength to give them a voice. He could remember too many other times he'd wanted a chance . . . and the times his mother had said, Trust me, Nicky, I mean it this time. Trust me, Nicky, I mean it this time. He had long ago gotten out of the habit of trusting people. He had long ago gotten out of the habit of trusting people.

He climbed out of the car and stood there, watching her drive away. When she was gone, he jammed his hands into his pockets and turned toward the motel. Fis.h.i.+ng his credit card out of his front pocket, he signed the register and got himself a room for the night.

The room was small and dark and smelled of urine. Dirty brown walls ran in a perfect square around a sagging double bed. A gray woven bedspread covered a lumpy mattress. A curtainless window looked out onto the neighboring building's cement brick wall. Gold s.h.a.g carpet, peeled away in places to reveal the bubbling blue foam pad, lay untacked atop a cement floor.

He could see the closet-size bathroom behind a wood-grain plastic door that hung awkwardly from broken hinges. He didn't have to go inside to know that there was a white plastic shower and beige toilet, and that rust ran in rings around the sink's metal drain.

He sat on the bed with a tired sigh. He had been living less than half a life for so long, and now even the half he'd clung to was slipping through his shaking, numb fingers like crumbled winter leaves. He knew that he'd been wrong to drink, that he'd gone down the wrong road when he first reached for a bottle. The booze was sucking him dry, and when it was finished with him there would be nothing left except a skinny, freezing old man on a park bench. . . .

On the far wall, a c.o.c.kroach scurried up alongside the brown plastic molding and disappeared beneath a framed picture of Mount Olympus.

Finally, after eight months of drifting, he'd come to the end of the line. There was only one thing that might make a difference. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the card Joe had given him.

Annie kept Izzy busy all day, but as the night began to fall, she couldn't pretend anymore. She read Izzy a bedtime story after dinner, then pulled Izzy into her arms. "I need to tell you something, Izzy," she started softly, trying to find the right words. "Your daddy is going . . . to be away for a while. He's sick. But he'll be back. He loves you more than the world, and he'll be back."

Izzy didn't respond. Annie didn't know what to say, what words could soothe this situation. She held Izzy for a long, long time, humming tunes and stroking her hair, and then, finally, she sighed. "Well, it's bedtime." She pulled away from Izzy and got to her feet. She started to head for the stairs, but Izzy grabbed her hand.

Annie looked into the sad, frightened brown eyes, and it broke her heart all over again. "I'm not going anywhere, honey. I'm right here."

Izzy held on to her hand all the way up the stairs and down the hall, and into the bathroom. In the bedroom, she still wouldn't let go.

Annie looked down into the girl's huge brown eyes. "You want me to sleep with you?"

A quick smile darted across Izzy's face. She squeezed harder and nodded.

Annie climbed into Izzy's tiny twin bed, without bothering to brush her teeth or change her clothes. She left the Little Mermaid nightlight glowing next to the bed as Izzy snuggled close.

Annie stroked Izzy's soft cheek, remembering suddenly how much she'd missed talking about her mom when she was young. After the accident, no one ever mentioned her: it was as if she'd never existed in the first place. And so, Annie had begun, day by day, to forget. She wondered if poor, quiet Izzy was facing the same fears.

She pulled up a memory of Kathy, concentrating until she could see see Kathy, sitting in that old rocking chair on her porch. "Your mom had the prettiest blond hair I ever saw; it was the color of a ripe ear of corn. And it was so soft. When we were little, we used to braid each other's hair for hours. Her eyes were almost black, the deep midnight color of a night sky, and when she smiled, they crinkled up in the corners like a cat's. You remember that?" Kathy, sitting in that old rocking chair on her porch. "Your mom had the prettiest blond hair I ever saw; it was the color of a ripe ear of corn. And it was so soft. When we were little, we used to braid each other's hair for hours. Her eyes were almost black, the deep midnight color of a night sky, and when she smiled, they crinkled up in the corners like a cat's. You remember that?"

Annie smiled. It was funny the things she could recall all these years later. "Yellow was her favorite color. She wore it in every school picture for years. And to her first dance-that was in eighth grade-she wore a yellow cotton dress with a deep blue satin trim that she'd made herself. She was the prettiest girl in the school."

Izzy twisted around to see Annie. There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

"You'll never forget her, Izzy. You remember her laugh? The way it used to spike up at the end, just before she started snorting? And the perfume she liked to wear? And the feel of her hand in yours? You remember how it used to feel to snuggle in her lap and hear her read you a bedtime story? All of that is your mom. My mom's been gone a long, long time, and I still think of her every time I smell vanilla. I still talk to her at night, and I believe she hears me." She brushed a lock of black hair from Izzy's earnest little face. "She hears you, honey. She just can't answer, is all. But that doesn't matter. You snuggle under your blankets with Miss Jemmie and close your eyes and remember one thing about your mom-just one-and the next thing you know, she'll be in bed beside you. You'll feel yourself getting warmer, or you'll see the moonlight get a little brighter, or the wind will moan a little louder, and you'll know. In her own way, she's answering you." Annie took Izzy's cheeks in her hands and smiled down at her. "She's always with you."

She held Izzy close and talked and talked and talked, laughing every now and then, and occasionally wiping a tear from her eye. She talked of girlhood pranks and loves lost and found, and wedding days; she talked of babies being born and growing up, and of Natalie. She talked about Nick, and how strong and handsome he had been and how much he loved Kathy, and how sometimes grief sent a person into a deep, cold darkness from which there seemed to be no escape.

She was still talking when night fell and plunged the room in darkness, when Izzy's breath took on the even wheezing of a deep and peaceful sleep.

Spring chased away the last vestiges of winter, threw its bright colors across the rain forest. Dainty crocuses, hyacinths, and daffodils bloomed in beds, along walkways, and in pockets of sunlight in the damp, needle-strewn forest floor. The birds returned, sat together on telephone wires, and dove for bits of string on the road. Jet-black crows hopped across the lawn, cawing loudly to one another, and used the driveway as a landing strip.

Against her father's pointed advice, Annie had packed a small suitcase and moved into Nick's house. It had proved to be a blessing, for although the nights were still long and lonely, she found that she now had someone to help her through it. She was no longer alone. When she woke in the middle of the night, her heart pounding from familiar nightmares, she climbed into bed with Izzy and held her tightly.

They spent all their time together, she and Izzy. They went to town, baked cookies, and made jewelry boxes from egg cartons. They concocted elaborate care packages for Natalie and mailed them every few days. They worked out of kindergarten and first-grade workbooks, to ensure that Izzy was still learning what she needed for school. And every evening, Nick called to say good night.

Today, Annie had special plans. It was time to revive Kathy's garden.

She stood at the wobbly white picket fence that framed the garden, and Izzy was beside her. The earth was a rich brown, soggy to the touch from last night's heavy rain. Here and there, puddles winked with a strange, silvery light.

Annie set down her big cardboard box and began extracting her tools: spades, hand shovels, trowels, scissors.

"I wish I'd paid more attention to the gardeners at home," she said, spying a big lump of brown twigs that looked promising. "That must be something good-or it's the biggest individual pile of weeds I've ever seen. And see how they're growing in clumps-that surely must be a good sign. I think cutting it back will help; at least that's what Hector at the Feed Store said. Come on, Izzy." She led her across the necklace of stepping stones that formed a meandering trail through the large garden. They stopped at the patch of dead stuff.

Annie knelt. She could feel the moisture seeping from the soil into her pants, squis.h.i.+ng cold and clammy against her skin. Pulling on a pair of gloves, she attacked the dead plant and yanked a handful out by the roots. "Bulbs," she said with a triumphant smile. "I knew it."

She turned to Izzy, gave her a self-satisfied look. "I knew it was a flower all along. Never questioned it, no sirree."

She separated and replanted the bulbs, then attacked the dead stalks of perennials with her clippers, hacking everything down to ground level. "You know what I love about gardening? Paying someone to do it for me." She laughed at her own joke and kept working. She pulled up everything that looked like a weed and divided and replanted all the bulbs. At last, she turned to the roses, carefully pruning the th.o.r.n.y branches. As she worked, she hummed. She tried to think of a song that Izzy would know, but all she could come up with was the alphabet song, and so she sang it in her wobbly, off-key voice. "A-B-C-D-E-F-G . . . H-I-J-K . . . L-M-N-O-P."

She frowned suddenly and looked down at Izzy, keeping her gaze averted from the tiny black glove. "My goodness, I've forgotten the alphabet. Not that it matters, of course. It's just a song and I'm sure I'll remember it in no time. "L-M-N-O-P. Well, there I go again, getting stuck on P."

Izzy reached slowly for a trowel. It took her a while to pick it up with only two fingers, and after the first fumbling attempts, Annie couldn't watch.

She kept singing. "H-I-J-K . . . L-M-N-O-P . . . darn it. There's that block again. Oh, well. I think we're about done for a while. I'm starving. What do you say we-"

"Q."

The spade fell from Annie's hand and hit the ground with a thunk. She looked at Izzy, who was still kneeling in the dirt, awkwardly pulling up weeds with her two "visible" fingers as if nothing had happened. The moment bloomed, full of beauty and possibilities.

Izzy had spoken.

Annie released her breath in a slow sigh. Stay calm, Stay calm, Annie. Annie. She decided to act as if speaking were as normal as not speaking. "Why, I do believe you're right. L-M-N-OP. . .Q-R-S . . ." She decided to act as if speaking were as normal as not speaking. "Why, I do believe you're right. L-M-N-OP. . .Q-R-S . . ."

"T-U-V. "

"W-X-Y . . . and Z." Annie felt as if she would burst with pride and love. She forced herself to keep digging weeds for a few more minutes. She wanted to shriek with happiness and pull Izzy into her arms, but she didn't dare. She didn't want to scare Izzy back into silence.

"There," she said at last. "That's enough for now. My arms feel like they're going to fall off. Jean-Claude-that was my personal trainer in California-he would be so proud of me right now. He always said I didn't sweat. I said if I wanted to sweat, I wouldn't wear color-coordinated clothes that cost a fortune." She wiped a dirty hand across her slick forehead. "I have lemonade in the fridge, and some leftover chicken from last night. What do you say we have a picnic dinner out here? I could make us milkshakes . . ."

When Izzy looked up at her, there were tears in her eyes.

At last, Annie pulled the little girl into her arms.