The Marriage of Sticks Part 14

James shook his head, exasperated. "I'm saying everything's written, Miranda. The biggest secret of life: Fate is determined, no matter how much you deny or try to fight against it. But you've challenged your fate your whole life. And gotten away with it!

"You and Hugh were not supposed to stay together. He was fated to go back to his wife and have that little boy with her. That's what the scene on TV was for: to show you how his life was supposed to have happened. You two were supposed to have a quick, red-hot affair. You were supposed to end up writing postcards from exotic places telling him how much you missed him.

"But none of it happened. You were able to change things. You changed fate. Again. Hugh stayed past the time he was supposed to and then he died. No reconciliation with his wife, no little boy Oakley, mother Charlotte, father Hugh. None of it happened, Miranda."

He stopped abruptly and the racket of summer's million insects instantly filled the air. Behind it, young James and the policeman continued talking in the car.

"What about the birthday party I saw the first day we went to the house? What about that little boy?"

"Never happened because he was never born. He was supposed to be born, but he wasn't."

"But you didn't go to jail either! That was good!"

"No it wasn't. That's where I was supposed to have straightened out. The experience would have terrified and changed me forever. I had always been dancing around the flames, being bad, taking chances. But going to jail would have thrown me into the middle of the fire. It would have been h.e.l.l. When I got out, I was supposed to get a job I liked and meet a woman who was right for me. And then I was supposed to have died an old man." He chuckled, but it was a black, bitter sound. He pointed to one side of his nose. "See this mole? The little one? When I was old it went cancerous but I didn't take care of it and it killed me." The same chuckle, even more venomous. "Not a hero's death, but nicer than driving a car into a pylon when I was barely thirty, chasing after a mean b.i.t.c.h with Russian poetry tattooed on her wrist."

A loud bell clanged inside the school. Within seconds, doors slammed open and hundreds of kids flooded out. Almost instantaneously the parking lot was filled. Cars started, horns honked goodbye, kids shouted and talked, hurrying toward the street and freedom. The necessary part of their day was over, and after hours in cla.s.s, all were eager to get to the good part.

James and I watched them leave. It didn't take long. I remembered that from the old days. You were out of the school building and somewhere else as fast as you could move.

Minutes later a few stragglers still stood around the back door chatting with my old chemistry teacher, Mr. Rolfe. A bunch played basketball at the other end of the lot. Several cars remained, including the green Saab. The policeman and young James continued talking. It was supposed to be the first day of the rest of his life.

But it never happened. Because of me.

8. Fever Gla.s.s.

McCabe and I looked at each other, waiting to see who would go first. The nurse at the reception desk had given us directions to the room, but once we'd stepped out of the elevator, we stood still, each hoping the other would make the next move.

"Go ahead."

"That's okay. You first."

"What was the room number again?"

"Ten sixty-three."

Unlike other hospitals or rest homes I'd visited, this one smelled altogether different. It was unnerving. None of the blunt, spiritless odor usually so prevalent in those places-disinfectant, medicine, and sickness mixed together so that it reeked of nothing good, nothing that gave comfort. Unable to stop myself, I raised my head and sniffed the air like a hound trying to recognize a scent.

McCabe saw me and spoke without hesitation. "Turkey. Smells like a turkey dinner in here. I noticed it first thing when we came in. Come on, let's find Frances." He started down the hall looking left and right for room 1063.

I had awoken in bed in the Crane's View house fully dressed, a quilt over me, head on a pillow, arms at my sides. Normally it took time for my mind to clear, but not that morning. Instantly I remembered what had happened the night before with Hugh and his family on the kitchen television, and then going with James to visit our old high school.

All my life people joked that I looked dead while sleeping because of the position in which I lay. Once settled and asleep, I usually never moved. This morning I lay wondering how I had managed even to reach the bed. Then the telephone rang. Picking it up, I didn't recognize McCabe's voice until he identified himself and said Frances Hatch was in the hospital. She had called him from there and asked that both of us come to see her as soon as possible.

His voice was edgy and irritated. "What I don't understand is why she's not in Manhattan. She's up in a place near Bronxville called Fever Gla.s.s or something. Strange name like that, but I've got it all written down. She gave me directions. Can you be ready in an hour? I'd like to get going."

The building was one of those expensive, ludicrous copies of a Tudor mansion only rock stars and other momentary millionaires buy or build these days. First we pa.s.sed through high, scrupulously trimmed hedges that hid the grounds from the street. Then, at the top of a long curving driveway, Fieberglas Sanatorium sat on a small rise amid acres of beautifully tended land that must have cost a fortune to maintain. Looking around, you got the feeling it could have been a golf course, an expensive research facility, or a cemetery. Or maybe all three in one.

McCabe pulled into one of the many empty parking s.p.a.ces in front of the main building and turned off the motor. He had been playing a Kool & the Gang CD and the abrupt silence was unsettling. It emphasized, Here we are and now we have to do something.

He looked in the rearview mirror and ran his hands through his hair. "Pip-pip. Tut-tut. This place is all English wannabe. They wish they were Brideshead Revisited. Wouldn't wanna be sick here. I'm sure they're big believers in high colonies."

I looked out the window. "You're sure she's here? It doesn't look like a very Frances place."

"True, but this is it."

We got out and walked across immaculate white gravel to the front door. McCabe opened it and motioned for me to enter. Inside, I was surprised to see large numbers of people milling about the entrance hall. Some were in robes and slippers, others were fully dressed. We went to the reception desk and asked for Frances. Checking a computer, the nurse apathetically tapped a few keys. I glanced at McCabe. He was a handsome man, no doubt about it. I wasn't crazy for the gelled hair, but in his double-breasted suit, white s.h.i.+rt, and black silk tie he looked very das.h.i.+ng.

"I'm sorry, but she's not allowed visitors right now."

McCabe took out his police badge and held it up for the woman to see. When he spoke, his voice was low and kind but there was no mistaking the authority it carried. "Just tell us the room number. And the name of her doctor."

The woman twitched uncomfortably in her chair. But there wasn't much she could do. "Ten sixty-three. Dr. Zabalino."

"Zabalino. That's great. Thanks very much," He took my arm and neither of us spoke until we'd reached the elevator across the hall. He pressed the orange b.u.t.ton and stared at his feet.

"What if she really is too sick for visitors?"

The doors slid opened. The car was empty. We stepped in and they shut quickly. I pressed three.

"Miranda, how long have you known Frances?" He stood too close to me but I didn't mind because it wasn't male-female or s.e.xy in any way. McCabe was in close on all accounts; he touched, he poked, he patted people on the shoulder. Most of the time I don't think he even knew he did it. He also spoke in a tone of voice that said he knew you intimately; you could tell him anything and it would be okay. He made contact in all ways, and even if you had done something wrong his touch or voice held you in place. It was nice.

"Not that long. A few months. Why?"

"I've known her twenty-five years. She's the world's most independent person. But when she does ask for something, do it and don't let anything stop you. She calls up and says she wants to see us here? We run, Miranda."

Several doors were open as we walked down the hall. In one room a very old man lay in bed with his eyes closed. Seated next to him on a wooden chair was a small girl. She wore a large red watch on her wrist and stared at it, eyebrows raised. She spoke to the old man and I realized she was counting seconds for him. Although his eyes remained closed, he was smiling.

Two doors down I was startled to see a small black dog sitting alone in the middle of a perfectly made bed. There appeared to be no one else in the room. I couldn't resist touching McCabe's sleeve and pointing. When he saw it he did a double take and stopped.

"What the h.e.l.l?"

The dog saw us and yawned. McCabe stepped to the door and peered at the small s.h.i.+eld giving the patient's name. "Frederick Duffek. Is a Duffek a breed of dog?" He took a step to the right so he stood in the center of the doorway. "Frederick? Where's your master?"

"Yes?" A gigantic middle-aged man appeared from behind the door a foot from McCabe. His bald head shone like it was oiled and he wore pajamas the color of old ivory. McCabe wasn't fazed. "Hey! I saw your dog there on the bed and was wondering-"

The man put a hand on McCabe's chest, pushed him back out into the hall, and shut the door in his face. Frannie looked at me, delighted. "What a f.u.c.king nutty place, huh? That guy looked like Divine. Maybe the dog's part of his therapy."

"Maybe we should find ten sixty-three."

But there was one more snapshot before we reached Frances's room, and that one stayed in my mind. All the other doors on the hall were closed except the one next to 1063. It was wide open.

Inside was a young woman. On first sight, her back was to us. She wore a baggy black sweat suit and her legs were spread wide. She looked like an inverted Y. On the floor in front of her was a very large blue-gray stone shaped like a rough egg. It would have been a strange sight anywhere. In that quiet, forbidding place, it was outrageous.

She panted hard three times-hoosh hoosh hoosh-bent down, and like a seasoned weightlifter hoisted the stone up to her stomach. Then she blew out the same three short pants and lowered it to the floor. Pause, then three pants and up again. McCabe hissed, "Jesus!"

The stone was almost to the floor. Letting it thud down, she spun around. She was remarkably beautiful.

"Dr. Zabalino?" She had a marvelous smile. When she saw us, it fell noticeably. "Oh, h.e.l.lo. I thought you were my doctor."

McCabe stepped into the room and looked quickly behind the door to check if anyone else was there. "Why are you lifting a rock? In your hospital room? Is that good for you?"

"It's part of my meditation."

"Meditation? Who's your guru, Arnold Schwarzenegger? Ooh!" He smiled lewdly and reached into a pocket. "My telephone's ringing. I love vibrating phones. I could let it ring all day." He took out a small gray one. It sprang open in his hand. "h.e.l.lo? Well, hi, Frances. Where are we? Not far. We could be there in, oh, eight seconds. Yeah, we're here. Next door to you, with the woman who picks up the rock? Uh-huh. No problem." He closed the phone and looked at me. "Frances says she'd like to talk to you first. I'll wait outside."

The woman put her hands on her hips and frowned. "Excuse me, but who are you two?"

Walking toward her, McCabe spoke quickly, as if he didn't want her to get a word in edgewise. "We're visiting your next door neighbor, Frances Hatch. Would you mind if I tried that before we go?" Bending down, he put his arms around the stone and made to jerk it up. His eyes widened and he spluttered. "How heavy is this thing?"

"Seventy kilos."

"A hundred and fifty pounds! You can lift it up and down like that? How do you do it?"

I caught his eye and gestured I was going. The woman asked me to close the door. Outside, I walked the few steps to Frances's room. As I reached for the k.n.o.b, someone nearby went, "Psst!" and I looked up.

Hugh and Charlotte's little boy stood in a doorway across the hall. He wore the same striped swimsuit he'd had on when I saw him on television in the kitchen. His feet were bare. Worse, there was a small puddle of glistening water beneath each foot. As if he had just stepped dripping wet out of a swimming pool.

Instinctively, I looked at his hands to see if he held another rock.

"I'm not gonna go away." His voice was a child's, and held the terrible note of unending threat only a child's voice can. Do you remember that? Do you remember how frightening and all-encompa.s.sing it was to be threatened by a cla.s.smate you hated because you feared them all the way into the marrow of your bones? You knew you could never defeat them, never, because they were stronger or prettier (or stronger and prettier), or smarter or bigger or horribly, monstrously mean. And because you were young and knew nothing of life, you knew this person your own age-seven, eight, nine-would always be nearby and a permanent menace until the day you died.

That is what I felt and the feeling was not small. A paralyzing dread came over me because this boy did not exist but was there nevertheless, ten feet away, looking at me with loathing in his eyes.

He began to sing. "In Dublin's fair city / Where the girls are so pretty-" His voice was sweet, mischievous.

I took a step toward him. "I don't know what you want from me! What can I do? What do you want me to do? I don't understand." Unintentionally I reached out toward him. Arm extended, palm up, a beggar's hand: Please help.

His face was blank. He gave me a long look, then stepped out of the doorway and walked away. His feet left wet prints on the linoleum all the way down the hall. He began to sing again. "-I first laid eyes on Sweet Molly Maione."

"Please stop."

Nothing.

"Tell me what I can do!"

He never turned. Reaching the door, he pushed it open and was gone.

When I entered the room, an imposing woman stood above Frances, taking her pulse. She had a big sweep of l.u.s.trous black hair spun up and around her head like a cone of soft ice cream. Thick eyebrows, large eyes, small features, white skin. She wore a black Chanel suit that contrasted vividly with numbers of gold rings on her fingers and bracelets on her wrists. If I saw her on the street I'd have thought, Money, showoff, businesswoman, or wife with an att.i.tude. Attractive without being special, her black eyes announced she knew exactly what she was doing. When she spoke the timbre and authority of her voice reinforced that.

"Can I help you?"

"Doctor, this is my friend Miranda Romanac. Miranda, Doctor Zabalino."

The doctor turned one of the bracelets on her arm. "The boy is telling the truth: he won't leave. You must make him go away."

Appalled that she knew what had happened outside, I barked back, "How do you know about that? Who are you?"

Frances feebly propped herself up on her elbows. "Don't be afraid, Miranda. I called you here because I'm sick. Very sick. The doctor says I might die, so I have to tell you some things. It's essential you know them.

"The first is, if anything happens to me, Zabalino can help you. If you need advice, or a place to stay, you can always come here and you'll be safe. From anything.

"But now you have to go back and live in the house. Stay there until you've found who you are. After that it's your decision whether to stay or leave."

"What am I supposed to do there? Help me, Frances. Give me some direction!"

"I can't because I don't know. But the house is the key, Miranda. The answers are all there."

"Is that why you gave it to us?"

She shook her head. "No, but it's the place where Hugh died and that's its importance. The same thing happened to me in Vienna with Shumda fifty years ago. I had to stay until I discovered who I was.

"Tell Frannie I can't see him today. But tell him his wife is very ill and must have a thorough examination. She can still be saved but must be checked immediately."

The door opened and McCabe strode in like the mayor of the place. "Hiya, Frances. What's going on, girls? Am I supposed to stay next door with Rock Woman?"

I heard something. I couldn't recognize what but instinctively knew it was bad. The way your head snaps back from a revolting smell before the brain registers.

The noise got louder.

"What is that?"

They all looked at me. The women traded glances.

McCabe shrugged. "What's what?"

"Don't you hear it? That breathing sound? Loud breathing?"

He rubbed the side of his chin and smiled. "Nope."

Frances and the doctor were not smiling. They looked as upset as I felt. "Miranda, you have to go. Right now, get out of here! Take Frannie. Go back to Crane's View. Go to the house."

McCabe was facing me, his back to the two women. "What's goin' on?" He looked happily baffled, as if a prank was being played on him.

Behind him, Frances called his name. He turned. Nothing pa.s.sed between them-no look, touch, word, or gesture. But he suddenly spun back to face me and his expression was four-alarm fire. "We gotta get out of here! Miranda, come on. Come on!" He took my arm and tried to push me toward the door.

I hesitated now, certainly frightened, but also determined to find out something. "What is it, Frances? What is that breathing sound?"

Zabalino spoke in a warning rush. "It's you. It's part of your self waiting outside. You must go now and find answers. It won't hurt you, or us, if you leave now."

"But Frances said if I was in trouble I could come here-"

"Later. Not now. Until you find out certain things and then decide what to do, none of us are safe while you're here. It's waiting. It can't touch you while you're inside. It's as close as it can get and wants you to know that. Fieberglas is a haven, but not for you yet.