Finally tracked it down through the Library of Congress, of all things. You know, they have a copy of every book that‘s ever been published? So nothing ever really vanishes these days, not even if there‘s a fire. Anyway, you just listen, okay; see what you think.‖
I was quiet.
―See, I think there was this guy who was a drunk and one bitter, abusive asshole.
After his wife died—after she hanged herself—he only had his youngest girl to keep him company. She was everything: cook, housekeeper, nurse, and . . . companion?‖ You said that very carefully, Bob, but that word was a bullet. That word was as loaded as a pistol.
I listened.
―Eventually, that girl got out of there. There were probably secrets because you never can outrun the past. I read somewhere that people are the accumulation of their experiences. Without your memories and secrets . . . you‘re nothing.‖
I said nothing.
―So she falls in love; she gets married, has her own kids. For the first time in a while, she‘s got hope. But there‘s the damn bookstore that keeps dragging her down and won‘t let go. Her asshole of a dad is still around and, maybe, up to his old tricks. Of course, she doesn‘t know for sure. She hopes it‘s not true. Until she finds out it is and then she decides to do something about that.‖
I said nothing.
―Otherwise,‖ you said, ―I really have to wonder why any mother would set fire to a house knowing her little girl was inside.‖ You paused. ―Unless she didn‘t.‖
Unless she’d carried her little girl, her princess, to the car herself before she went back inside. Unless she couldn’t know that her little girl wanted her favorite Ariel doll and slipped back into the house, to the basement where she’d hidden from her grandpa to begin with and that it was her brother who noticed she was gone. . . . Her brother ...
You may have said something, Bob, but I can‘t be sure.
Because, by then, I was screaming.
46: a
Nurses and doctors came running. Dad blasted in and then he was shouting at you to get out and not come back without a warrant or lawyer or . . . I don‘t know. Once you were gone, Bobby-o, my father tried to find out what you‘d said, but I was curled up in my chair, hands over my ears, eyes squeezed shut. Fire licked my back; my nose filled with the stink of burned hair and the cruel flames cackled....
(Mom, swearing, slugging the EMTs doing CPR on Grandpa: Don‘t you save that son-of-a-bitch; don‘t you dare!)
―What did he say to you?‖ Psycho-Dad was back, his hands clamped around my wrists, forcing my hands from my ears. ―Damn it, Jenna, what did he say?‖
―I think you need to give her a minute, Doctor,‖ said a nurse. ―Maybe if we gave her a little something?‖
―Get out,‖ my father said, only he actually didn‘t say it that politely. After the nurse scurried away, Psycho-Dad bore down. ―What did he say? Jenna, goddamn it, look at me. I need you to tell me what he said.‖
Even in non-Hulk mode, my father always has been virtually impossible to ignore.
Whatever gumption I‘d discovered back at the house had evaporated. So, between gulps, I told him. His eyes got narrower and narrower until they were nothing but burning, bloodshot slits.
―Is it true?‖ I whispered. ―Dad, did Mom—?‖
―Of course not,‖ he said. ―Don‘t be stupid. The fire at the store was an accident.‖
That wasn‘t what I‘d meant, and Dad knew it. ―That‘s not what I meant. I meant about—‖ My throat balled, but I forced myself to finish. ―About Grandpa.‖
―No. Don‘t tell me you believe that idiot. He‘s like all police. They‘re just covering up for their own incompetence.‖
―But the detective—‖
―Fuck him.‖ His eyes blazed. He aimed a forefinger at my face. ― Fuck. Him. You are not to talk to him again, you understand? The only talking you do to any detective, ever, is when I‘m there and our lawyer, you got that?‖
―Do you remember him? From before?‖
―I don‘t recall. The fire at your grandfather‘s was an accident, open and shut, all right? I‘m going to file a complaint with the police chief and the mayor. I‘m going to get that guy‘s ass fired so fast....‖ Dad cut the air in an angry, dismissive gesture. ―Jesus, like I don‘t have more important things to worry about. Listen, I have to go back home.‖
―But, Mom—‖
―I‘ve got no choice. I‘m it for our practice and there are no other doctors I can call to cover on such short notice. I have patients in the hospital. There‘s nothing more I can do here for your mother anyway.‖
―Then I‘ll stay. Someone should be here if she wakes up.‖
―Jenna, she‘s not going to wake up anytime soon.‖ He didn‘t say never, but he might as well have. ―But if that‘s what you want ...‖
―That‘s what I want,‖ I said.
Dad must‘ve bullied someone because they let Meryl come up. As soon as I saw her, I plowed into her arms and buried my burning face into her shoulder like a little kid.
―It‘s okay,‖ she murmured, as we tottered back and forth. She stroked my hair. ―Whatever happens, I‘m here, honey.‖
She‘d brought my knapsack and promised to fetch clothes. ―And your hairbrush,‖
she said, ticking items off on her fingers. ―Shampoo, conditioner, face soap . . . am I forgetting anything?‖
―My laptop.‖ I told her what books I needed. ―Oh, and my car‘s still in the school parking lot. I think my keys are . . .‖ I stirred the contents of my knapsack and came up with the ring.
―Sure, sweetheart.‖ She checked her watch. ―It‘ll be daylight soon. We‘re down here, might as well. Your dad and I can dig it out—‖
―He wants to go back.‖
―He can suck an egg. His patients will keep. I‘ll get them to run your keys back up to you. That way, you can come and go as you please, without having to depend on me or him. Monday comes, we‘ll see how things are. I can put off going back north for a while.‖
―I need to go to school on Monday.‖
―Why don‘t you just take it one day at a time? You might not feel up to school for a while. People would understand.‖ She peered at me over her glasses. ―You call him yet?‖
For a weirdly confused moment, I thought she and I were on the same page. I nearly called Mitch by name but caught myself just in time. ―He‘s probably not up yet.‖
―If that boyfriend cares about you, he won‘t mind. Besides, don‘t all you kids sleep with your cell phones glued to your ear? Call him, honey. That‘s what people who love each other do.‖
c
The nurse‘s name was Laurie. She got them to bring in a cot so I could sleep next to Mom. ―People always complain how cold it is,‖ Laurie said, carrying in an armload of blankets. ―I swiped these from the autoclave in the delivery room. You should be nice and toasty. Anything else you need, you just say.‖
―Thanks.‖ I knew I wouldn‘t sleep, but I let her cover me up. She‘d been so nice, it seemed the least I could do.
―Oh, one more thing, honey. Hospital rules, you can‘t use that cell up here. You want to make a call, you have to go down to the cafeteria. Otherwise, you have to go outside, as in out of the building. Okay?‖ I nodded, and she dimmed the lights and left.
For a while, I lay on my side and watched the green and red lines that sketched my mother‘s heartbeat and blood pressure. The ventilator hissed and sighed and sucked air and let more out. The IV pumps ticked away, dribbling fluids into my mother‘s veins. My mother was still as death.
I checked my cell: almost 5 a.m. Meryl might be right; Mitch would want to know. I knew I would. But I decided to wait a little while longer. The idea of bundling up to stand in the frigid wind made me feel tired.
If you‘re wondering if I thought about what you‘d said, Bobby-o, you‘d be right.
Deep in my heart, I knew my mother had killed her bookstore. I could imagine her turning a slow circle, her eyes cutting across the silent spines of the books that she loved so much. I wasn‘t sure she meant to kill herself. She was drunk. So that might have been an accident.
Or not.
About what you‘d said about the fire at Grandpa‘s . . . Bobby, Bobby, you didn‘t really expect me to go on the record, did you? Mitch guessed. You‘re not as smart as he is, but you can read between the lines. Come to think of it, I probably should‘ve had you do my paper on Alexis; you seem to be pretty good at telling stories about crazy people. So, draw your own conclusions.
I rummaged in my knapsack and dragged out the Lasker book, the one Mitch had given me. Now was as good a time as any, I guessed, so I propped myself up on pillows and started in.
The book was a very fast read. Lasker reiterated a lot of what I already knew about Alexis. If you believed him, they‘d met at Stanford before Alexis hooked up with Wright, and it was lust at first sight. Lasker went into great detail about what Alexis was like in bed (a screamer who liked to use her nails and wasn‘t above a little blood); how often she wanted to get into his pants (every five seconds); how she made him feel: sore.... Okay, he really didn‘t say that. What Lasker wrote was sated, yet hungry for more of the drug that only Alexis infused in my veins, oh sweet happy death. Talk about hyperbole. Maybe it‘s me, but I imagined a bloated Bacchus, with wine dribbling onto his chest. Or a heroin addict.
The whole book was like that. I wasn‘t sure why Mitch thought it would be helpful, then considered that all I had for Alexis‘s frame of mind was what she said and what others, out to protect her legacy, wrote. Lasker was all me-me-me, and maybe there was something to that. If you believed him—and I kind of did—Alexis cheated on her husband all through their marriage. The Alexis in these pages was vain, self-absorbed, blind to everything but her own needs and passions, whether those passions were for whales and dolphins, or a lover.
But then I came to something Lasker wrote that made all this somehow noble and tragic, at the same time, and so good, Bob, I copied it word for word: There are those individuals who die for a cause, and we say they have made the ultimate sacrifice. We call them martyrs, and we never doubt their sincerity.
