dinners and breakfasts, doing daily chores for Molly or myself. I’d sunk into a kind of exhaustion I’d never imagined, too tired to swim through it or even to try.
Finally, Susan went home, and Molly was asleep. When I crawled into bed, it felt like almost morning, but the clock said just twelve-thirty. I remember falling onto my soft, cool pillow, the fluffy comforter folding over me, Nick tucking me in. Nick? Why was he still there? And why was I so glad to see him? He talked about his home in the country, about escaping. About fireplaces. About pine trees and fresh air. It seemed natural, as if he belonged.
I remember thinking, falling into sleep, that before I left I’d have to call someone to say where I was going. Michael? No, Michael and I were divorced. Weren’t we? Then who? No name, no face came to mind. But it was somebody. There was, had to be, someone I had to call. But, drifting, I couldn’t think, couldn’t remember who it was.
FORTY-FIVE
THE FIRE POPPED. I JUMPED. NICK GRABBED MY HAND.
“Sorry.” It had sounded like a shot.
“Relax,” he said. “Let me fix you a drink.”
The day had passed in a haze. My headache pills must have relaxed me into unconsciousness. Or maybe not. Maybe I’d simply “gone away” for a while, too numb to participate.
At any rate, my recollection of getting to Nick’s was, at best, hazy. I had little memory of getting into his car or of making what must have been a forty-five-minute drive to his house in Chester County. I wasn’t sure if we’d left in the morning or afternoon. Waking, dressing, eating breakfast, getting Molly ready—I’d done it all in a fog. Worst of all was Molly. Shortly after we’d arrived, I’d seen her scamper off to play in the snow, but I couldn’t remember her coming back inside. And that troubled me. How could I forget to watch my child? Why didn’t I know if she’d made a snowman or worn her mittens or had hot cocoa when she’d come in? Was it possible that I hadn’t noticed, hadn’t made certain that she’d been safe?
Nick rearranged me on the pillows. What a wimp I was. My arms were leaden. My eyes burned. My head weighed tons. Each thought, each image was heavy and hard to hold on to. I wanted to snap out of it, but whenever I closed my eyes, Charlie’s blood splattered the walls, covered my face. His hand held mine, even when his skull shattered, even when his brains flew across the room. His voice implored me to be careful.
No, I told myself. Get rid of Charlie. He was nuts. Don’t let his delusions seep deeper. Don’t worry about Molly. She’s fine. She’s resilient and wise. But no matter how I reassured myself, I felt Charlie squeeze my hand as his head popped open, splashing my face.
The fire popped. No need to jump, nothing to scream about. Nick went to the kitchen, and I heard water running, paper rustling, glass clattering. Molly’s voice asking, “Like this?” Nick’s voice muffled, offering an answer. Then giggling. Molly was helping him cook again, I guessed. They were fine. I lay back and watched the fire wrap itself around the logs. Fingers of flame held the wood, reaching into cracks, sucking out everything but ash. There was no escape; the fire consumed until there was nothing left.
Nick offered me a glass mug of something hot and steamy. The liquid matched the fire, glowed with golden light. My arms wouldn’t move to take it. What the hell was wrong with me? Nick held the mug to my lips and told me to take a sip. I smelled cloves and looked up at him, grateful to be taken care of. Charlie whispered, “Don’t trust anybody,” and reptilian eyes squinted at me, sharp as knives. I blinked, and Nick’s blue eyes blinked back, taking me in.
“Mommy, we made hot cider.” Molly cuddled beside me, careful not to spill her drink.
“Have some,” Nick urged. “It’ll soothe you.”
Lifting a leaden hand to take the drink, I put Charlie’s warnings aside. Nick was a cop, a detective. He had flaws, but he was decent and generous, trying to make up for what had happened. Taking us into his home. Charlie’s paranoid suggestions and the trauma of his death had warped my thinking. If I weren’t careful, even in death Charlie might take over my thoughts and distort my judgment.
Spicy, steamy liquid glowed,