One day, four hours until Halloween
Corinne
I slice through the water like a knife, allowing it to flow over my back as I breaststroke my way down the pool.
I don’t take the time to swim much these days, but I love it here.
The physical therapy pool here at Mercy is always quiet, and this morning, it is completely empty except for me. It is still and peaceful, with only the sounds of the water breaking the silence. The reflection of the water glints on the ceiling, shimmering blue and turquoise from the corner of my eye.
I kick off the wall and flip around, heading back to the other side.
The cold water is a welcome treat on my face. My belly rolls and rolls, the nausea welling up in me. It flushes my face, and overheats me until I feel like I might pass out. I’d thought about calling off to work, but there’s no one to cover.
Cold water seemed to be the next best thing. A brisk swim before my shift.
I kick hard off the opposite wall, sucking in a breath before diving under again. Opening my eyes beneath the surface, the water is clear and blue, and so so silent. I love it under here. There are no problems here...no bad memories, no strained marriage, no panic. It is utterly peaceful. I should do this more often.
One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, four.
I find myself down the pool yet again.
Then again.
Then again.
Physical exercise empties the stress from my body, wringing it out like water from a dishrag. I’m almost too tired to feel sick. But not quite.
As I heft myself up onto the side of the pool, the water drips around me, and I take a shaky breath. My mouth still feels sick, a bit like vomit, a bit like pooled saliva. I swallow hard.
I will not puke in this pool.
I resolve to take some Phenergan when I get to the ER. I can’t work a shift like this today. Hell, no.
Sitting on the side, I towel my hair and enjoy the silence for a scant minute more. In a few minutes, I’ll be immersed in the chaos of Emergency, so I’m going to enjoy this while I can.
It is as I’m standing up that the music starts to blare, suddenly and loudly, from the overhead speakers.
Lyrics from “American Pie” again.
I’m frozen as the notes and words swirl around me, into the chlorinated air, and my stomach seems to hit the tiled floor like a brick.
This song.
This song.
I swallow, and my heart is banging in my ears, the roar drowning out the sounds, and I look around, but no one is here, and there’s no reason why the music is playing, and I’m alone.
But I’m not alone.
Because the music triggers me into panic, and I’m clutching at the air and struggling to breathe as the memories stand around me, like sentinels waiting to drag me to prison.
The bloody bodies. The pumpkins and the full moon. My father’s eyes, staring at me in accusation. In accusation?
I sink to my knees and I relive it all...and something new pops up in my head. The kids’ crying from their bedrooms. “Help, help. Mommy?”
Their voices.
So helpless, so small.
And I hadn’t done anything...but stand there like a statue.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
“Dr. Cabot?”
My eyes open, and my hand stops scratching at the ground.
A physical therapist stands in front of me, concern in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
Am I?
“I’m not feeling well,” I finally manage to say, and my voice is weak and small. The PT reaches out and steadies my elbow.
“Let’s get you over here to a seat.”
I allow her to help me and to wrap a towel around my shoulders. She even sits next to me for a minute, rubbing my shoulder.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“No, I’ll be fine in a second. I’m fighting a bug.”
And seventeen-year-old memories.
After a few more minutes, I’m able to stand and to breathe, and so I thank her and head to the ER locker room, where I throw on my scrubs. I feel dizzy, and in fact, the lounge spins for a minute. I lean my head against the cool metal of my locker. I can’t seem to gather myself or gain my bearings.
Brock comes in, pulling off his stethoscope. When he sees me, he puts it back on.
“Go back home,” he announces, without greeting. “You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I’m serious.” He puts a hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever, but you look like crap. You’ve run yourself down. You’ve got to get some rest, and you don’t want to give the rest of us whatever you’ve got.”
I nod, because I know he’s right.
“Okay.”
“I’ll go call someone else in. You go home.”
I nod again. “Thanks.”
As I trudge to my car, I consider the bright side.
I can spend the evening with my husband.
I don’t bother texting him. After he’s complained so much about my not being home, I’d rather surprise him. In fact, I decide to surprise him with food. I stop by Vilma’s on the way home.
The little café is bustling, but Vilma greets me with a smile.
“Dr. Cabot, it’s so nice to see you!”
The little old lady offers me a hug.
“It was so nice of you to send soup to me yesterday,” I tell her warmly. “I felt like I was at death’s door.”
“Glad we could help. Did we send you beef stock or chicken noodle?” She seems a bit confused, but it’s no wonder. I doubt she personally dished it up.
“The chicken. And it was delicious. I’ve got to pick up dinner for tonight,” I tell her. “Do you know what Jude gets when he’s here?”
She scrunches her nose. “It’s been a while since I’ve taken his order. Let me ask one of the girls.”
She scans the busy room, then picks up the phone, calling the kitchen.
“Zoe, what does Jude Cabot usually order?”
She nods, then hangs up.
“She said he loves the steak, but that’s not good for takeout. So he’d probably settle for a salad.”
“My husband is eating salad?” This surprises me. He usually runs so that he can eat whatever he wants. And then I instantly feel dumb, because I’m his wife and I should know these things.
I shrug. “All right, then, we’ll take a chicken Caesar, and I’ll take a big cup of soup with crackers.”
“You’ve got it,” Vilma tells me. She walks into the dining room, and a minute later, I see her talking with a girl. I can see the girl only from the back, but I know it’s Zoe.
Her skirt is short, her top is tight, and she’s definitely young. I swallow hard. As Vilma starts to walk back toward me, Zoe talks to a customer. She laughs and it rings out like a bell, and she’s flirtatious.
I remember when I was, too. It seems like a thousand years ago now, though.
I crane my neck to see her face, but she moves, and I don’t want to seem too obvious.
I pick up a magazine.
“She’s a good waitress,” I say aloud to Vilma. The old woman looks like she swallowed a bug.
“Maybe. The male customers seem to like her.”
Her meaning is clear. With the short skirt and tight top, I’m sure that’s the case. Men are easy to please.
“Does she wait on my husband a lot?” I try to sound casual.
Vilma pats my arm. “You don’t have anything to worry about, my dear. Mr. Cabot is a good man. It’s some of these other yokels that I worry about.”
I glance to the guy Zoe is waiting on now. He’s middle-aged and doughy, and he’s flirting right in front of his wife. Dick.
“You’re right,” I agree with the elderly woman.
I return my attention to the magazine, but out of nowhere, my stomach starts rolling. I rub it and close my eyes because the wave of nausea is intense and sudden. I know I’m going to vomit again.
I run for the bathroom, through the smells of cooking food and meat and perfume. All of it combines to make me retch even harder, and I barely make it to the bathroom. I can’t even lock the door behind me.
I drop onto the scuffed floor and puke my guts up into a dingy public toilet.
I heave and heave until there isn’t anything left to throw up.
That’s when the bathroom door opens and someone steps into the stall next to me.
I gulp at some air and heave again.
“Are you okay, Dr. Cabot?”
It must be Zoe. My foot is under the wall, sprawled into her stall, and I pull it back.
“I’m...” My voice is shaky. “Yeah. I’m pregnant.”
There’s a pause. Then, “Oh my gosh, congratulations!”
“Thanks.” I put my hand on the wall, trying to stop the stall from spinning. The nausea is making me dizzy.
“Will your husband be happy?”
I swallow the pool of saliva in my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit again. “Yes. He’s been wanting a baby for a while now. Don’t mention this to him, okay? I’m going to surprise him.”
“Of course.” She flushes her toilet. “This bathroom is gross,” she points out. “You might not want to stay on the floor.”
I hear her wash her hands, and when I come out, she’s gone. A little part of me is disappointed. I need to see what she looks like. I need to see if she’s prettier than me.
But then again, that’s dumb. It’s not like she’s competition.
I rinse my mouth out, pick up my food from Vilma, and the crisp air outside feels so good on my flushed face.
I drive home, wait for the garage door to open and walk into the kitchen entrance of my house. I call for Jude, but there’s no answer. I find him in his office, staring at his phone.
“Hey,” I greet him. He startles and shoves his phone into his pocket.
“Hey,” he answers, and he’s clearly surprised. “What are you doing home?”
“I’m still sick. I’m going to take a couple days off.”
Only now I know—I’ll be sick for a few months. I’m still trying to process it.
I glance at my husband, assessing his mood. He seems to be tired, antsy even. Now is not the time to tell him.
“I came bearing gifts,” I tell him. “Dinner. It’s in the kitchen.”
He’s appreciative and tired, and I kiss him on the cheek. “I’m just going to change, and then I’ll be right there.”
I head to the bedroom, and on a whim, and I don’t know why, I decide to put on one of his shirts instead of my pajamas. He’s always loved it when I wear his shirts, and I guess I’m hopeful it will make him smile. He seems so distracted lately. Work must be bombarding him. I certainly know the feeling.
I wear only a pair of panties underneath his shirt and unbutton the top few buttons so that the swell of my breasts shows when I move.
I run my hands over my silhouette in the mirror.
It’s going to change very soon. My breasts will engorge, my belly will swell.
I swallow hard. I don’t know if I’m ready.
But I guess I have to be.
I join my husband in the kitchen, and his gaze flickers over me from top to bottom. I know he must be tired when he doesn’t react much.
“Well, well,” he says quietly as he serves our food. “Look at you.”
I grin. “It’s just a little something I picked up.”
He smiles back. “I like it.”
But his eyes don’t have the spark in them that I thought they would.
“You’re tired,” I observe.
He nods. “So tired.”
“Me, too.”
Now is definitely not the time to tell him.
I eat my soup, he eats his salad, and afterward, we sit staring at each other.
“Want to continue our game?”
“Sure.”
We walk into the living room together, and as I sink to the floor, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. Something on the porch. I can’t see what it is from here, but it’s small and dark.
“Did you order something?” I ask Jude, climbing back to my feet.
“Nope,” he answers, studying the board, already plotting his next move.
“Don’t cheat while I’m gone,” I warn him as I head to the door.
He chuckles. “I can’t promise.”
I’m snorting when I reach the porch.
And then I’m frozen.
The address stares up at me. The address. Tarnished bronze numbers and letters stare up at me, and this can’t be happening.
131 All Hallows Lane.
My eyes flit around the lawn, at the dark, at the shadows, and there is no one there.
Yet someone was.
I’m not imagining this.
It’s real.
My breath is caught and I’m floating, and I’m falling, and I can’t decide what I’m doing. Floating or falling? My thoughts come in slow motion and blurs, and the old metal burns a hole in my brain, and Jude’s voice cuts through it all.
“Co. Corinne. Corinne.”
His hands are around me, then his arms, then he’s carrying me to the couch. I can’t breathe and he’s rubbing my back, and his voice is soothing.
“It’s okay. Take a breath. Relax. Relax. Tell me what you see in the room. Open your eyes, babe. Open your eyes.”
I feel like I need a crowbar to do it, but I open them, and the light comes in, and my breath still won’t come. The room spins, and I try to focus.
Jude sits down next to me again and holds my hand.
“Tell me what you see, Corinne.”
“There’s a fireplace.”
“What color is the flame?”
“Orange.”
I take a breath. It’s short and stilted, but it still feeds my lungs.
“What color is the clock on the mantel?”
“Bronze.” Almost the same color as the address plaque. “Why is that on our porch?”
I pant now, and fear floods through me, and I don’t know why. What is there to be afraid of?
“I don’t know what you mean,” Jude answers calmly. “But don’t focus on that right now. Focus on me. Focus on breathing. Focus on my voice.”
He starts singing to me, giving me something to focus on. A dumb song that I know he hates from the radio. He hates it and I love it.
I focus and focus and focus.
And after a few minutes, my throat relaxes. My heart slows. I can breathe again.
I rest my forehead on Jude’s shoulder and try to stay calm.
“Are you okay now?” Jude asks me. He strokes my fingers.
I nod.
“How long have you been having panic attacks?”
He’s not accusing, just concerned. His mouth is drawn, his eyes are guarded.
“Not very. My hormones... I...” I almost tell him, but now isn’t the time, so I trail off, and Jude waits. I begin again.
“The address plaque on the porch,” I say. “It’s the address from...that night. It’s the same address plaque.”
Jude looks at me in concern and then gets up. He walks to the door, opens it and looks outside. He looks one way and then the other. He’s there for a minute, and when he comes back, I’m terrified of what he is going to say.
His face is a blank blank mask, and he looks at me oh so carefully.
“Corinne,” he says softly. “There’s nothing there.”