Primal - By D.A. Serra Page 0,76

be seeing things…you know, things that aren’t there.”

“Uh, oh.” Now, Curtis realizes the seriousness. She was such a fragile thing when she burst into his cabin that night. He remembers thinking she looked like a half-drown kitten in his doorway: wet, freezing, terrified. No one was more surprised than he was when she survived. But that kind of violence has a cost. She has images in her mind that must shake her sanity.

“How serious is it?” he asks.

“Hank left me. He took Jimmy.”

“Oh, that sucks, Alison.”

“I got laid off.”

“Ouch.”

“Truth is I’m not completely sure what’s real anymore. A few minutes ago I was wondering if you were real.”

“I feel real.”

“But maybe you’re not. Maybe I didn’t actually call you right now and I’m not really talking on the phone. Maybe I’m sitting in an asylum at this very moment staring out randomly and being spoon-fed succotash.”

“I can’t confirm anything else except you are definitely talking to me and no one has said succotash since 1950.”

“Everyone around here thinks I’m crazy.”

“You gotta right to be crazy for a bit, but then you need to get your act together, get your job back, and start doing mom things again. If you don’t, then, it doesn’t matter whether Burne’s dead or alive; he still owns your ass.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s right.”

“You know it.”

“What about you? You know we have a guest room. It’s yours when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, but I hear you’re crazy.”

She smiles. She hears him chuckle.

“Take care, Curtis.”

“Bye, Alison.”

Night slipped into the kitchen as she sat there immobile. She had adjusted to the darkening room and hadn’t noticed. When she finally rises from the kitchen chair and grabs the teacup, she has to turn on the lights to put the cup into the sink. Her right leg, which was bent underneath her, had fallen asleep and she shakes it as she walks toward the stairs. She and Hank have never voluntarily slept apart. By tomorrow, surely Hank will be back. He will talk to me. I will go to therapy. I will do whatever it takes to bring them home. She turns off all the lights downstairs. She walks over to switch on the alarm system. She reaches for the touch pad, but yanks back as though she has been shocked. No. This is part of it, she thinks. The alarm, the weapons, the night watch, they are all symptoms. This fear is like an infection that has spread out and devoured my life. Enough. She turns her back on the alarm panel and she feels empowered by this simple move. She starts up the stairs to the second floor. The aggressive adrenaline that has been fueling her muscles for a month turns off like a spigot, and as she lifts her feet from one step to the next, she feels crushingly weary. Her legs are dead as stumps, and her arms hang useless and heavy by her side. She feels as if all the blood has been drained from her body. She drags herself up the last few steps to the little landing that separates her and Hank’s bedroom from Jimmy’s. She stops and peeks into Jimmy’s room. The paradox hits her: stuffed with so many things and yet utterly empty. She hates that his bed is perfectly made and it reminds her that Polly had been there that morning. Yes, how could she forget that? Poor Polly. She will call her tomorrow, call and apologize. How does that conversation go? Gee, hi, sorry I tried to stab you with the butcher knife, could you finish the laundry now? Damn. How could I have been that confused? I must have scared her to death.

Leaning against Jimmy’s doorway, Alison would prefer it if his room were a complete mess, the kind of childhood jungle that only a nine-year-old could create, the kind of mess that would indicate without question that her little boy was home. I want him. Her chest aches. She looks around at all of his toys; they are waiting, too. His noisy prized robot is silent in the corner. His school books are gone from the desk and when she sees that she feels a sickening free fall inside. She is all alone in her own home at night. When has that ever happened? Not since before Jimmy was born. She turns toward her bedroom. Even with all the furniture, the family photos, the drapes, the bookcases, and silk flowers, her house feels hollow. She feels hollow. She thinks,