Goodnight Beautiful Page 15

  Sheehy nods slowly. “Admire your confidence,” he says. “That’s a good quality in a woman. And while I’m no relationship expert, even I know that might not be enough time to get to know someone. Decide if they got it in them to be faithful.”

  A piercing scream sounds in Annie’s ears, and it takes her a moment to realize it’s not in fact coming from her but from the smoke detector in the ceiling. She checks the oven, seeing the smoke billowing from the door. “Shit,” she says, snatching the oven mitts and retrieving the smoking lasagna. She drops the pan into the sink and turns on the water.

  “Seems you got a lot on your plate right now,” Sheehy says. He drains his coffee mug and sets it on the counter. “I gotta say, Mrs. Statler, I admire your faith in your husband. Sure hope this turns out the way you want it to.”

  Chapter 34

  Sam doesn’t know if he should wake up or stay in the dream, although he can see the advantages to each option. Option one: in the dream, he’s with Annie, in Manhattan, on the corner of University Place and Washington Square Park, five days after he’d asked her to marry him on the front porch of the house for sale in Chestnut Hill. She’d finally said yes, in a text, three hours earlier. Okay fine, she wrote on her way into class. I’ll move to the country and marry you. He was waiting outside Studebaker Hall an hour later. “Honest to god, you’re a walking Nicholas Sparks novel,” she said when she saw him. They sat in silence on the subway back to his apartment, arms linked, lost in the idea of what they were about to do. Emerging from the subway, Annie stopped at the table of a man selling hats and chose something with fake fur around the face. “To prepare me for life on the prairie,” she told the man, handing him a twenty.

  Option two: if he wakes up, he can learn what that noise is. A painfully grating noise that’s been assaulting him for the last few hours.

  He decides to stay asleep, but then the dream changes, and he’s not on the sidewalk with Annie anymore. He’s walking down a neon-orange hall at Rushing Waters, heading toward his mother’s room. Something tells him not to, but he opens the door anyway. Margaret is alone, sitting in her armchair, waiting for him.

  “I don’t want to be here,” he says.

  “Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” she says, smiling, her voice like it used to be, before the disease. “Only place you want to be is staring at a reflection of yourself.” She starts to laugh. “You left your wife.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he says.

  “Yes, you did, Sam. I knew you would. We all knew you would.”

  “I didn’t leave her!” Sam screams.

  The scraping stops.

  A bright light goes on overhead and Albert appears, hazy, shards of yellow paper stuck to his sweatshirt, a shiny knife in his hand.

  “Two more hours, Sam,” Albert says, shoveling pills into Sam’s mouth. “Go back to sleep.”

  * * *

  Sam’s limbs are immovable, his head aches.

  There’s a warm light to the room, and he forces himself to stay awake and pay attention. Something has changed.

  He’s in a different room. He raises himself on his elbows, his hips stiff under the weight of the casts, and takes a better look. He’s in the same single bed. The same floral curtains are drawn in front of what he assumes is the same boarded-up window. In the corner of the room, that’s the same closet door.

  It’s the yellow wallpaper. It’s been torn from the walls.

  He flops back on the mattress, elated. “It’s working,” he whispers. The plan is working. Do what Paul Sheldon did, in Misery: befriend the motherfucker.

  Two days now, Sam’s been buttering him up, trying—in the lucid moments between the pills Albert forces upon him every few hours—to earn his trust so he can figure out what the fuck he wants. He wants to kill you. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, sending the thought back into his subconscious. No. If that’s what he wanted, he would have done it already.

  He wants to be close to you.

  His skin crawls, imagining Albert up here, listening. It makes sense now, at least, how Albert always seemed to know when Sam finished work. Even on the days when Sam tried to slip out, making sure the door didn’t slam behind him, Albert would be there, smiling from the porch, holding two glasses in his hands.

  Sam’s been racking his brain for any details Albert’s shared about himself. He tended to zone out as Albert nervously rambled; what he mainly remembers is that Albert knows a surprising number of useless facts about the family who built his house, and that he volunteered at the Chestnut Hill Historical Society as a tour guide.

  The cut on Sam’s head is throbbing, and his legs are itching inside his casts. He wants to go out to dinner with Annie and have a hot shower. He wants to understand what this guy wants, so he can give it to him and get out of here.

  Oh, I get it. Annie’s voice pops into his head as he hears the rattle of Albert’s cart down the hall. You’re going to charm him and then screw him, the way you did with all those unsuspecting girls in high school. Good thinking, Sam, use your superpower.

  “Whatever it takes to see you again,” he whispers as the key enters the lock and the door opens. “Good morning, Albert,” Sam says, fixing on a smile. “How nice to see you.”

  Chapter 35

  “Oh fudge, you’re awake,” I say to Sam, disappointed. “I wanted to see your reaction.” I push the cart into the room and set the brake. “Well?”

  “You took the wallpaper down,” he says. He’s sitting up in bed, color back in his cheeks.

  “As best I could.” I smooth my palm along a gluey patch. “What do you think?”

  “I think it looks great,” Sam says. “The room has a much calmer feel now.”

  “Oh, good. That’s what I was hoping you’d say. Studies show that homebound patients heal faster in a pleasing environment, and you were right, that wallpaper was a little much.”

  “How’d you do it?” Sam says, downing the cup of water I’ve poured for him.

  “A box of four-inch putty knives, scalding hot water, and some good old-fashioned elbow grease. Gave you something to sleep through it—I wanted it to be a surprise. And that’s not all,” I say. “Close your eyes.”

  I return to the hall for the chair and push it into the room. “Okay, open.”

  “No way.” He looks genuinely stunned. “Is that my Eames chair from downstairs?”

  “Well, not your exact Eames chair,” I say, wheeling it toward him. That one needed to stay downstairs in case your wife decides to come back and snoop around. “A brand-new one. I had it shipped overnight.”

  “Wow, Albert,” he says. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Because you need to get out of that bed or you’ll develop decubitus ulcers, and I couldn’t think of a more comfortable option.” I caress the soft leather, remembering the first time I sat in this chair. I watched from the window upstairs as two men carried a large box down the steps and into his office. I couldn’t resist. Later that night I used the extra key I’d asked Gary Unger from Gary Unger Locksmiths to make and I spent a half hour in the silence of the room, cradled in the most comfortable chair in the world. Italian leather, hand-crafted chrome frame, and locking wheels.

  I park it next to his bed now. “You want me to . . .”

  “Get me out of this bed and into this chair? Yes indeed,” he says. I fold back the sheets. “Scoot to the edge,” I instruct, hooking one arm under his casts, the other at his midlumbar, and then use my knees to lift.

  “Well done,” Sam says after I set him gently into his chair.

  “A lifetime of moving people in and out of beds,” I say, pausing to stretch my back before retrieving the ottoman I took from the living room. I drag it inside and hoist his legs on top, one at a time. I then return to the hall for the table, also like the one he kept in his office, and set it next to the chair, then arrange his things on top: the yellow Kleenex box next to an academic paper on Anna Freud and the October issue of In Touch, with a cover story on Kris Jenne
r’s secret Mexican wedding. The final touch is the small clock, placed on the floor across the room from him.

  “Just as I’d left it,” Sam says.

  “That’s right.” I step back, spread my palms. “How does it feel?”

  “Like I’m back at work,” he says, gripping the armrests. “In other words: like heaven.”

  “I’m glad,” I say, barely able to contain my excitement. “Now let’s take a look at those stitches.” I snap on a pair of latex gloves and pull back the bandage on his forehead. “This contusion is healing nicely,” I say.

  “You seem to know a lot about medicine,” Sam says.

  “Twenty-five years in the health-care field,” I say, taking a folded sweatshirt from the bottom of the cart, loyola greyhounds printed across the front. “Put this on. It’s chilly in here.”

  “Were you a doctor?” Sam asks, slipping it over his head.

  I laugh loudly. “From your mouth to my estranged father’s ears,” I say. “No, home health aide, recently retired. ‘Home Health Angels, helping people age in place while providing peace of mind to the whole family.’”

  “What kind of things did the job entail?” Sam asks.

  “Whatever the client needed,” I say, taking a tube of ointment and a fresh bandage from my apron pocket. “Bathing and meal prep. Companionship.” I dab ointment onto Sam’s cut. “Wound care.”

  “I bet you were good at it.”

  I pause mid-dab. “What makes you say that?”

  “You have a calming presence,” Sam says.

  “Well, I’m not one to brag, but I was employee of the month three times,” I say, my cheeks burning. I finish with the bandage and return to the cart.

  “Mind if I ask what happened between you and your father?” Sam asks. I fidget with the plastic container of cotton swabs and keep my back to him. “You said you and he are estranged. I’m curious why.”

  I hesitate. “It’s a long story.”

  “I have some time.” His tone is gentle. “Would you like to sit down?”

  I turn toward him. “Why?”

  “I imagine it’ll be more comfortable.”

  I scan the room, hesitant. “On the bed, or should I get a chair?”

  “Whichever you’d prefer,” he says.

  “The bed is fine, I suppose.” I sit squarely in the middle and press down on the mattress with both hands. “Nice and firm.”

  Sam nods. “It’s comfortable.” He stays silent and tents his fingers in front of his mouth.

  “I haven’t spoken to my father in more than thirty years,” I say.

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s ashamed of me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It was obvious,” I say. “We were different.”

  “In what ways?”

  “He’s a real man, and I’m a sissy.”

  “Wow,” Sam says. “Is that what he called you?”

  I swipe dust from my pant leg. “He wasn’t wrong to do so,” I say. “I wasn’t like other boys. Always hated sports and couldn’t fight to save my life.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not his,” I say before I can stop myself.

  “What do you mean by that?” Sam asks.

  “I mean Albert Sr. is not, in fact, my biological father.” I’ve never said this out loud before, and the words tumble out. “I had a hard time at school. I could usually hold it together, but sometimes, when I got home, it felt like too much and I had to let it out. My mother would sit with me on the couch until I stopped crying. My father came home early one day. There was a fire where he worked, and they closed the plant.” I can see him standing in the doorway. That look on his face. What’s sissy boy crying about this time?

  “And?” Sam asks.

  “He was furious,” I say, my chest tight. “Looked me right in the eye and said ‘I thank god every day that kid’s not mine.’”

  “How old were you?” Sam asks.

  “Eight.” My heart is beating so loud I’m afraid Sam can hear it from his chair.

  “Did you know what that meant?”

  “Not right away, but sooner or later I put together that my mom had an affair.” I force a laugh. “I felt relieved for him, to be honest. At least he didn’t have to blame himself for having such a weak son.” I take a deep breath to compose myself. “My mother died when I was fourteen, and then it was the two of us.”

  “Oh, Albert.” Sam looks genuinely pained. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Breast cancer,” I say. I can picture her, biting the ridges off a Pop-Tart one by one, asking if I wanted to stay home from school and be with her. I said yes, every time, not because I didn’t like school but because she needed me so much I was sure she’d die if I went. We’d hide upstairs, listening to the bus pass by the house, and then she’d make us scrambled eggs and turn on the soaps.

  “How did your father deal with her death?” Sam asks me.

  “He was angry,” I say. “One thing Albert Bitterman Sr. never saw for himself was life as a single parent. I did what I could to please him, but nothing did. Over time, we figured out how to just stay out of each other’s way, and I left home as soon as I could. We haven’t spoken since.”

  Sam allows a few moments of silence. “Fourteen is a hard age to lose one’s mother,” he says eventually. “How did you cope at the time?”

  “I pretended I was part of the family across the street.” I laugh. “Crazy, right? The Parkers.”

  Mrs. Parker started dinner at four thirty while Jenny watched television in the living room, a bowl of ice cream on her lap, nobody worried she’d spoil her dinner. On the weekends Jenny had sleepovers, all the popular girls crowded on the living room floor, staying up late with popcorn and grape sodas. She knew who I was. I lived across the street, and not once did she consider me worthy of a hello. The only time she ever spoke to me was when Mrs. Parker dragged her over to deliver a pan of lasagna and say how sorry they were to hear my mom had died.

  “After my mom died, I decided Mr. Parker was going to admit that he and my mom had an affair and come claim me,” I tell Sam. “I went into their house a few times.”

  “So you got to know them?” Sam asks.

  “No. I went when they weren’t home. I knew from watching that Mrs. Parker hid a key under a flowerpot on the side porch. I’d go Sunday mornings, when they were at church.” I look down at my feet, unsure why I’m telling him all this, prepared for him to echo the words I grew used to hearing back then: You’re a freak. But his tone is gentler than ever when he speaks.

  “What was it like being inside their house?”

  Cinnamon air freshener and clean laundry. Grape soda in the fridge. “It was thrilling,” I say. “I wouldn’t stay long. I just wanted to see what it was like. But then one of the girls got sick at church, and they came home early.” I was in Jenny Parker’s bedroom when I heard the front door open. “Mrs. Parker found me hiding in her daughter’s closet. It was terrible.” I bite down on my lower lip, willing myself not to cry.

  “That sounds traumatic,” Sam says.

  “I know,” I say. “Mrs. Parker was terrified every time—”

  “No, you’ve misunderstood me,” Sam cuts in. “I mean traumatic for you. What you did was perfectly natural. But I can’t imagine anyone understood that.”

  “It was?”

  “Absolutely. You were grieving, and trying to find an anchor in your mother’s absence.”

  “They made it seem like I was doing something perverted, but I wasn’t,” I say. “I swear to god. Mr. Parker kept me barricaded in the bedroom until the police came, and then my father was called.” I close my eyes, hearing the front door slam behind us after my father dragged me home, the absolute terror as he charged at me, calling me those names. I stand up. “Can I go now?”

  Sam looks stricken. “You want to leave?”

  “Yes, can I?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m tired,” I say.
“I think I need to lie down.”

  Sam smiles. “Of course, Albert. I think that’s a good idea.” His posture relaxes, and he pats the arms of his chair. “And I think I need to sit up. Thanks again for the chair.”

  I nod, and lift the foot brake on the cart. “You’re welcome,” I say. I step into the hall and go upstairs and shut the door, praying he won’t hear me cry.

  Chapter 36

  Someone in the kitchen drops a tray, startling Annie, the sole occupant of the dining room at Rushing Waters. The residents are off to Applebee’s in the strip mall for their weekly outing, but the nurses told Annie that Margaret has been having trouble sleeping—they found her roaming the halls at three in the morning, two nights in a row. Annie returns to the email she’s writing to Margaret’s doctor, urging him to prescribe something new to help Margaret sleep; whatever the white pills are that she’s taking have stopped working.

  Annie sees Josephine, one of the women who works the reception desk, pushing a cart into the dining hall. “That’s a nice touch,” Annie says, as Josephine places vases of fresh carnations on each table.

  “Trying to spruce this place up,” Josephine says, dropping a copy of the local newspaper on the table in front of Annie. “Free newspapers now, too.” They both see what’s on the front page at the same time: a photograph of Sam under a bold headline: Local Therapist Reported Missing Last Week Found to Be in Significant Debt.

  Annie picks up the newspaper and scans the article.

  It turns out that Dr. Sam Statler, a therapist known for helping people with their problems, may have been concealing a few of his own including multiple credit cards, maxed to the limit. According to Chief of Police Franklin Sheehy, this discovery is leading investigators to consider the idea that the missing Chestnut Hill man’s disappearance may not, in fact, have been accidental. The debt was a surprise to Statler’s wife, who teaches literature at the university.

  “Oh my god,” Annie whispers. “That asshole called a reporter.”