Love Gone Mad Page 14

  This shit storm’s coming down the pike—like an eighteen-wheeler on I-95.

  Twenty

  Dinner is taken in the hotel dining room, a drab expanse of off-white, Formica-topped tables. Soggy, warmed-over preparations sit in tarnished tureens on a long, cloth-covered buffet table. Cloying music is piped in—tinny Muzak stuff that reminds Megan of the saccharine music she hears at the Danbury mall. She glances at a clot of hotel conventioneers picking over the buffet offerings.

  “We’d be better off at the Olive Garden,” Erin mutters.

  Trembling ripples through Megan’s chest, and a hum courses through her insides. The food smells like cheap meat and reused cooking oil. It makes her feel nauseous. Even the thought of food makes Megan’s stomach churn. She’s not certain she’ll be able to swallow an Ambien before bedtime. Yet another drug … She’ll be a junkie before this is over.

  God, when will this shaky feeling end? I don’t want to take another Xanax … I feel zonked already. But this shaking just won’t quit. Will I end up like Nurse Jackie on Showtime—drug addicted and sneaking meds out of the dispensary?

  “I can’t believe this place,” Erin mutters, pushing Robert’s plate closer to him. “It’s totally bargain basement.”

  Erin’s right. The hotel—a nondescript six-story, prefab structure—is situated between the Connecticut Convention Center in Hartford and the choking exhaust fumes of I-91. It’s cookie-cutter generic, with zero personality. It’s typical of the world we now live in—homogeneous. You could be in Hartford or Baltimore or Cleveland, for all it matters; they all look the same. But who cares? It’s only temporary, till this nightmare ends.

  “This place should be called Hotel Purgatory,” Erin says. “You just kill time here, waiting to go somewhere else.”

  Why do I feel this is my fault?

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Erin says. “Adrian can handle himself.”

  Marlee pokes her fork onto Robert’s plate and snares a chicken wing.

  “Marlee, let Robert eat in peace,” Megan rasps. She feels brittle, ready to crack apart. No, not ready to crack. There’s already a deep, raw fissure in her being. She’s been shredded, chopped, and churned in this food processer called life.

  “I want chicken wings, too,” Marlee whines.

  “Then ask and we’ll go to the buffet table.”

  “It’s been going on nonstop,” Erin says.

  Megan mouths the word Jealous. Then she crosses her arms in front of her and squeezes, holding herself together so she won’t collapse in front of the kids.

  Megan sits in her room at the edge of the bed. A muted orange glow comes from the bedside lamp. She gazes at the room’s grayish walls. Yes, Erin’s right: the place is a dump—Burger King cheap.

  During dinner, Erin kept muttering about Conrad. “I hope they find him soon because we can’t stay very long in this hole,” she said. “And the kids have school …”

  Erin’s antipathy toward Conrad had always been out there, especially as he’d become more unhinged years earlier.

  “He’s a caveman,” Erin would say. “Okay … so he’s smart, even with that callow country-cowboy act. Actually, I think he’s a bipolar maniac.”

  Megan recalls the time Erin—jokingly, of course—called him Connie. You’d think she’d castrated him—purposely. Sometimes Erin can be really cutting. It’s just her personality. But Conrad reacted as if she’d called him faggot, his favorite word. His face turned plum-purple and he looked like he’d implode.

  Megan wonders why she fell for him so quickly back then. Yes, Erin nailed it—part of her sister’s social intelligence. It was that callow, aw shucks cow-puncher way of his. At first he wasn’t particularly jealous. And there were no rage-filled, paranoid rants until later.

  But now she understands what attracted her to Conrad. It was the seduction of shared circumstances. They’d both been adopted, and she fell into that vortex of commonality. God, how pathetic it all was; how completely naive it was of her to think that their both being orphans made for some deep and abiding connection.

  How stupid could you have been, girl?

  The telephone rings in a nerve-jangling burst of noise, and Megan nearly jumps. She picks up the receiver.

  “How’re you feeling, sweetie?” Erin asks.

  “I’m okay,” she says, trying to stifle the motor in her chest. “I’m glad Marlee’s staying with you and the kids tonight.”

  “For them, this is an outing. It could be Rye Playland.”

  A high-pitched yowling derails the conversation.

  “You two have got to stop this,” Erin calls, her hand over the receiver.

  “What’s going on?” Megan asks.

  “Oh, Robert wants to watch SpongeBob and Marlee wants something else.” Erin’s voice fades as she yells, “You’ll take turns!” Then, speaking into the telephone, she says, “Marlee’s bullying Robert …”

  “Well, she’s in this shitty hotel—and she knows I’m all screwed up. She picks up on everything. You know how kids are.”

  “Megan, maybe Marlee’s got Conrad’s …” Erin’s voice trails off.

  “Say it, Erin,” she whispers. “She’s got Conrad’s temperament, right? She’s got his lousy genes?”

  “I’m sorry, Megan. It’s … just stupid …”

  Megan’s eyes well up with tears and feel swollen. “No, I’m sorry, Erin. I shouldn’t take this out on you.”

  “Forget it, sweetie. I was being a jerk.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Megan murmurs, as that internal motor shifts to low gear.

  “Oh, Megan, this must be terrible for you …”

  “I just can’t believe this is happening … to you, Bob, the kids … and Adrian.”

  “It’ll be over soon, sweetie.”

  “I feel like a nerve dipped in the ocean, like I have no skin.”

  “Honey, you just need some time to get past this.”

  Megan nods; she tries desperately to convince herself Erin’s right. Yes, she needs time—the great healer. Tincture of time will do it. Isn’t that what the doctors always say?

  But her head pulses and her chest feels clogged. God, she can still smell that storage room, the cement and moldy cardboard mixed with dust and rat droppings. It’s embedded in her nostrils. And she can’t rid her thoughts of him … the mask and the knife.

  A ding comes from the hallway elevator. Megan’s insides lurch. Her pulse stampedes. There are voices—a man and a woman, then laughter.

  “What’s wrong?” Erin asks.

  “I just heard the elevator.” Her chin quivers.

  “Megan, we’re safe here. Don’t let your imagination run away with you. And remember, sweetie, there’re cops in the lobby.”

  “And Marlee’s okay?”

  “She’s fine.”

  Megan’s shoulders hunch with tension; she’s so tight, her muscles ache. She hears the ice machine rattle in the alcove off the hallway.

  Clunk … clunk … clunk …Cubes drop heavily into a plastic bucket. The sound shoots through her like a machine gun.

  Music floats down the hallway from an open door.

  A woman says, “Oh, don’t be stupid …”

  A door slams. The music dies.

  Another door opens. She hears voices, laughter. It must be a party. There’s more music. Sounds like rap—ugly, brutal. Violent words in forced rhymes. It gets louder, peaks, and then fades. Turns to a bass thumping and penetrates the room’s walls.

  Paper-thin walls, cheap fiberboard, joint compound, and spackle, Home Depot construction … what a prefab world it all is.

  Erin says, “Can you believe it? The kids love this place—no school, a flat-screen TV in the bedroom …”

  Megan nods, wanting desperately to believe something good will come of this.

  “Just try to get some sleep,” Erin says. “Did you take that other pill …?”

  “I will … but you know me, I’m not a pill person.”

&n
bsp; “Tonight you need a pill or two. Just take it.”

  When they hang up, Megan lies back on the bed and stares at the ceiling. She tries to connect the dots of her life—reviews the seemingly random yet linear chain of events all leading up to this moment where she’s in this hotel room on this awful night and she fears for her life. And she’s afraid for Marlee and Adrian, too. Despite the sequential connections of her life’s events, it strikes Megan that none of it makes sense. It’s all so crazy.

  The phone warbles. She nearly jumps, grabs the receiver, and puts it to her ear. But before she can say a word, a harsh buzzing comes from the earpiece.

  Is it a hang-up?

  Conrad?

  How can he know she’s here? It’s impossible. She’s so wired, she thinks she needs another Xanax. Maybe even two … just to take the edge off. There are three more inside that little capped bottle the ER doctor gave her. Maybe she’ll just let the medication snow her; she’ll drift into a mindless fog. She’s taken maybe three pills in her whole life, but now Megan understands why some people become addicts, complete junkies.

  She trudges into the bathroom, opens the plastic bottle, dumps a Xanax tablet in her palm, peers at its whiteness, shakes her head, and then thrusts it in her mouth. A cup of sink water washes it down.

  Back in the bedroom, the telephone jangles; it seizes her.

  Her hand hovers.

  Pick it up … The known is better than the unknown …

  There’s another ring.

  “Hello …”

  “Megan, it’s Adrian.”

  “Adrian,” she gasps. “Where are you?”

  “At the hospital. I’ll be leaving soon. More important … how’re you?”

  “I’m okay,” she hears a small voice say. “Did you just try to call me?”

  “I don’t know. The police patched me in to you. Why?”

  “The phone rang and nobody was there.”

  “My call must’ve been dropped. But you sound so nervous … Maybe you need another Xanax.”

  “I just took one.”

  “You’ll take the Ambien tonight, right?”

  “Yes …”

  She can hear—even feel—the worry in his voice.

  “Adrian, I’m worried about you … about what Mulvaney said. He could come for you.”

  “He doesn’t know where I am.”

  Biting on her lip, Megan feels the flesh between her teeth. A sliver of skin peels back. She licks her lip and it burns. There’s a fissure where she bit; it’s as raw as she feels inside.

  “Adrian, why don’t you just stay at the hotel …? Don’t go to the hospital tomorrow.”

  “Megan, my love, Eastport’s crawling with cops. Besides, they’ll find him.”

  “Find him? No way. He grew up in the Rockies, Adrian. He could live in the wilds if he wanted to.”

  “Megan, this is Connecticut, not the Wild West.”

  “Adrian?”

  “Yes, darling?” he whispers.

  “Do you realize how much you mean to me?”

  “Nothing’ll happen. Listen—”

  “And to Marlee.” Her eyes are so wet, the room blurs. Her voice bubbles in her ears, and tears collect at the back of her throat. “Marlee’s become so attached to you in only … what is it, a month …? A little more …?”

  “Megan, I—”

  “No, Adrian, I want to say this,” she blurts, nearly gurgling through her tears. “Other men”—she quivers—“other men’ve been interested, but I didn’t want Marlee to get attached, to be disappointed. I didn’t let them in. But, Adrian, I let you in. I let you into our lives.”

  “I know, Megan. I know. I love you and I love Marlee,” he whispers. “I love you both so much.” She thinks she hears him choking. “Okay, Megan,” he says. “Just tell me where you are and I’ll leave now. I’ll come and stay with you.”

  “No, Adrian. I’m being selfish,” she says, closing her eyes. “Erin’s here.”

  “Megan, you and Marlee are all that count. I’ll talk to the chairman. He’ll get another surgeon—”

  “No, Adrian. We’ll be fine. But I love you, and I can’t stop worrying.”

  “Megan, when I saw the way you looked tonight, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. It made my heart ache.”

  “Oh, Adrian.”

  “Megan, my love, we’ll be together … the three of us,” he says, his voice cracking.

  “Adrian, you and Marlee are my whole world now. I just want us all to be safe.”

  Megan senses he’s about to offer some anemic reassurance—but he doesn’t, thankfully. As a doctor, Adrian knows better than to mouth empty promises. You don’t use balm on an open wound, she thinks, recalling when she worked in oncology. Morphine dulls pain. It’s palliation—an attempt to relieve suffering—but the cancer marches on, metastasizing everywhere.

  And that’s what Conrad is: cancer.

  In the bathroom, Megan slides the vinyl shower curtain aside, turns on the bath spigots, and adjusts the valve so water pours into the tub. She knows she needs sleep, desperately.

  No, girl … If you think you’re going to sleep well tonight, you’re in another world; you’re in some dreamlike fantasy of a place. You have to stay real. You’ve been through a trauma, as the psychologists would say.

  It’s so strange, she thinks, because she never in her life dreaded sleep. In fact, years before, when Conrad was getting crazier, sleep was a welcome sanctuary.

  But tonight Megan knows he’ll come back to her in her sleep. He’ll haunt her. God, it’s like Freddy Krueger. She’ll shoot awake in a clammy cocoon of sheets.

  At the bathroom sink, she picks up the other translucent orange vial and reads the label.

  Ambien. For the short-term treatment of insomnia.

  She unfolds the insert and reads about the side effects: dizziness, drowsiness, a “drugged” feeling, weakness, a bunch of others. It occurs to Megan that it might be a good idea to take one now, to give it time to do its thing—dope her up before she crawls into bed. But she’s already half-bombed from the Xanax. It’s going to be some combination.

  Knock yourself out, girl. Just go for it. Get some sleep. That’s what you need.

  She pops the container lid, drops a tablet into her palm, and slips it onto her tongue. She pours water into the glass and lifts it to her lips. Swallows. The Ambien drops down.

  Go ahead, work your magic, Mr. Ambien. Are you the one with the butterfly hovering over the bed? No, that’s Lunesta.

  Bath water pounds heavily into the tub and turns hot. The bathroom steams up; fog covers the mirror. The air is heated, dense, wet. She turns the directional lever up so water spurts from the showerhead. She strips off her clothes, steps into the tub, and slides the shower curtain shut. Water sloshes over her. She lathers up. The hotel soap smells like tangerine—bringing on a hint of nausea. Reminds her of the paramedic’s cologne that night they were run off the Post Road. Her legs quiver like gelatin, but the water feels soothing and forms a hot liquid wrap.

  Megan looks down and sees soapy water circling the bathtub drain. Her heart jumps. She should have known this would happen: she thinks way too often about movies.

  She’s reminded of the shower scene in Psycho. Anthony Perkins and Janet Leigh: the shower curtain is ripped aside; Megan recalls Norman Bates in an old woman’s dowdy garb and then black-and-white quick shots, a close-up of the showerhead, water streaming out in arcs, the knife slicing through the air, screeching violins, the blade plunging into Janet Leigh’s body, the soft thushing sound of the steel puncturing flesh, blood circling the drain, washing away, and suddenly—in less than the second it takes to recall it—Megan’s knees buckle, and she’s ready to collapse in the tub with the water running, lying with open, dead eyes, just like Janet Leigh. She realizes she’s left the bathroom door open.

  She slides the shower curtain aside, reaches through the steamy air, closes the door, and with a shaking hand, turns the latch and locks it
.

  My God, I’m going berserk. I’ll drive myself as crazy as Conrad.

  Megan thinks it’s difficult to believe her life’s funneled down to being in this tub with its yellow, floral nonslip bathtub appliqués, showering in this cookie-cutter hotel, right off a major, clogged highway, and she realizes that no matter how long she lives, she’ll always see herself as a survivor. Yes, from now on, each day is a gift, she thinks, life granted by nothing more than luck. Everything good—whether it’s time spent with Marlee or Adrian, helping a fragile preemie struggle for life, watching the ecstatic parents of a newbie or anything else, for that matter—is little more than a bequest.

  Lying in bed, Megan is thankful the bass beat from down the hall has stopped. With a thermal-pane window, the room is sealed off from the distant roar of I-91.

  She hears footfalls in the hallway. Then that ice machine churns again; the elevator bell dings; the doors slide open.

  My God, it’s so loud.

  I’m going out of my mind.

  More footsteps, then sibilant whispering, a woman’s voice; then there’s a high-pitched giggle in the hallway. It grows distant, recedes down the corridor, and fades like the drift of a radio station at night, a ribbon of sound lost in darkness.

  She lies there, stone still, trying to ease her tense muscles, the covers pulled to her chin, waiting for sleep, amnesty.

  The telephone sends out a shrill tone. She bolts up, fumbles for it, picks it up, and puts it to her ear. She hears only a buzzing dial tone. She slips out of bed, turns on the lamp, and dials reception. “Did anyone call my room?” she asks.

  “No, Ms. Haggarty,” says the operator.

  “Are the police there?”

  “Yes, two officers are in the lobby. One’s near the elevators.”

  “Thanks,” she says, and slips the phone onto the receiver. She switches the lamp off and slides beneath the covers.

  The sodium vapor lamps three floors below cast pastel illumination onto the hotel; shadows of sycamore branches form a dancing tracery on the room’s ceiling. Eerie, but better than darkness, Megan thinks. She hates the blackness of night and has always feared how it makes her feel there are no boundaries, just dark emptiness. Like the universe—an endless void. But those shadows are so creepy. Why didn’t she pull the drapes closed?