Goodnight Beautiful Page 22

  “No more lies, Albert.” Dr. Statler’s voice is stern. “I won’t allow it.”

  “I’m not lying,” I whimper. “I didn’t break your legs. I put the casts on so you couldn’t leave.”

  Dr. Statler surprises me with a laugh. “Wow, Albert. That is some Annie Wilkes–level crazy.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say, offended. “She chopped off Paul Sheldon’s ankles. I just pretended to hurt yours.” I close my eyes again, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry,” Dr. Statler says. I feel the knife blade press against my cheek. “That’s good to know.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “I certainly could, couldn’t I?” He trails the blade along my jaw, to my Adam’s apple. “All I’d have to do is apply some pressure right here . . .” I’m too terrified to move. “It wouldn’t take more than a minute or so for you to choke on your blood. Nobody would blame me, not after everything you’ve done to me. Locking me inside this room. Shoveling those pills into my body. But no.” He removes the knife from my throat. “I’m not going to kill you. At least not yet.”

  I open my eyes. “You’re not?”

  “No. And do you know why?” he asks. “Because you’re not evil, Albert. You’re wounded. You don’t deserve to die. You deserve a chance to get help.” He settles back into his chair. “There’s one thing we didn’t go over yesterday. The prognosis.”

  “The prognosis?”

  “Yes,” he says. “In other words, what are the patient’s chances of achieving what he wants: a happy life with stable relationships?”

  “The prognosis is good,” I whisper. “While no treatment is completely foolproof, with a regimen of therapy and medication many anxious-preoccupied adults can maintain healthy connections and live happy lives.”

  “That’s right, Albert,” Dr. Statler says. He takes a deep breath. “Now stand up and go get your phone.”

  “My phone?” I say.

  “You do have a phone, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go get it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to call nine-one-one and ask them to send two ambulances. One for me, and one for you.”

  “No, Dr. Statler—”

  “You’ll be taken to the psychiatric emergency department at St. Luke’s,” he continues. “Where you’ll see Dr. Paola Genovese, the head of the inpatient unit.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Paola will admit you and perform an evaluation. She’ll be able to help you. She’s one of the best.”

  “But I—”

  “What’s the other option?” Dr. Staler interrupts, his voice firm. “You know you can’t keep me forever.”

  “Not forever,” I say. “Until you’re better.”

  “Well, guess what? I am.”

  “You’re not—”

  “No, I am, Albert. Thanks to you.” He pauses. “You’ve shown me that nothing is more important than being with Annie and making amends for the ways I’ve screwed up with her.” He sits forward and places his hand on my arm. “And now it’s your turn to get better.”

  A strange tingling sensation floods through me. I can get help.

  “Come on, Albert,” Dr. Statler says. “Go get your phone. Let’s go together, to the hospital.”

  I hesitate. “Will you stay with me?”

  “Hell, no, I won’t stay with you,” he says. “I’m going home to my wife, if she’ll still have me. But I’ll work with your doctors and make sure you get the best help. Now go on, Albert. Go get your phone.” He releases his hold on my arm. His other hand still grips the knife. “Trust me.”

  It’s almost as if I can see myself from above as I take the stairs up to my bedroom and remove the black cordless phone from its cradle. Back on the ground floor, I slide open the library doors, inhaling the smell of leather and paper, my mother’s scent. I pick up one of her photographs, wiping the dust from her eyes with my thumb. The air is still.

  You can do this. It’s her voice.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. No, I can’t.

  Yes, you can.

  My thoughts are racing. They’ll admit you and do some tests. I’ll get you the best help.

  I hope your life is full and rich, my beautiful boy.

  I set the photograph back in its place and walk through the sitting room, into the living room, resolute, the phone gripped in my hand. I can do this.

  I pass the kitchen and am halfway down the hall when I hear Sam’s office door slam shut downstairs. My heart stops.

  Someone’s here.

  I wipe my eyes and turn around. I should probably see who it is.

  Chapter 52

  Annie steps into the waiting room, the faint scent of Pine-Sol in the air. She keeps the lights off and listens. Albert is home, upstairs. His car is in the driveway, and a light was on when she arrived.

  He was listening to Sam’s sessions. The man with the too-good-to-be-true offer to create Sam’s dream office, the same one who has been visiting Sam’s mother twice a week, was listening to her husband’s therapy sessions. He even went so far as to email a reporter with a description of the patient Sam likely ran off with, a description Harriet Eager shared with Annie.

  Twenty-four years old. Sculpture student. Oh, and she’s French.

  Her phone rings, and she immediately silences the ringer. It’s Maddie. Annie answers, hearing music playing in the background.

  “Are you in the car?” Maddie asks, cheerful.

  “No.” Annie swallows. “I’m at Sam’s office.”

  “What?” Maddie says. The music goes quiet behind her. “Annie, your plane leaves—”

  “The guy Sam rented from was listening to Sam’s sessions,” Annie whispers. “And he’s been visiting Margaret at the nursing home.”

  Maddie is silent a moment. “How do you know?”

  “It’s a long story, but trust me,” Annie says, opening the door to Sam’s office.

  “Are you there alone?”

  Annie turns on the light. “Yes.”

  “Annie, please leave right now and call the police.”

  “I can’t.” She scans Sam’s office. “The police have made up their minds about what happened.” She sees it then—the metal grate in the ceiling above the couch. “I’ll call you back.” Annie hangs up and slides the phone into her coat pocket. She steps slowly toward the couch, her eyes on the ceiling. A vent.

  “Dr. Potter, what a nice surprise.” She spins around. It’s him, Albert Bitterman, standing in the doorway. His eyes are red, as if he’s been crying. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m on my way out of town, and I—I wanted to stop here,” she stammers.

  “You wanted to say goodbye,” he says. “I understand. You’re in mourning, and you want to feel close to Sam.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but if you don’t mind, I have to ask you to leave. As much as it pains me to say it, I don’t think Dr. Statler is coming back, and I consider our lease null and void. In other words, this space is now private property.” He turns, gesturing toward the waiting room.

  “I need to hear it again.”

  “I’m sorry?” he says.

  She notices the band of sweat on his upper lip as her phone vibrates in her coat pocket. “You were the last person to see my husband, the night he disappeared. I need to hear it again. How he looked. If he seemed—”

  “I told you already,” Albert cuts in impatiently. “He looked fine. He said good night, and that was it.”

  “Said good night?” she says. “You said he didn’t see you. When we spoke on the phone the next morning, you said you saw him run by the window, outside.”

  “Did I?” He takes a step closer. “My memory’s not quite what it used to be. But please . . .”

  He reaches for her arm, and something about the feel of his hand registers as familiar. “It’s you,” she says, t
he image flashing in her mind. “The man I bumped into on my way out of the Parlor two days ago. That was you. You were wearing blue eyeglasses then—”

  “Annie!”

  She freezes at the sound of the voice, coming from the ceiling. She turns toward the vent. “Annie! I’m here, upstairs. Call the police.” It’s Sam’s voice. “Please, he’s dangerous.”

  “Sam!” She’s flooded with a momentary rush of relief—I knew it, I knew he was alive—before the terror takes hold. She turns and looks at Albert. His eyes are wide and vacant.

  “Did Dr. Statler just call me dangerous?” he asks, his lips trembling. “It’s your fault,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t have come here. We were in the middle of something.”

  Terrified, she sprints past him toward the door. He grabs her arm, but she pulls free and runs through the waiting room, out the door. Albert chases her down the path, grabbing her ankle as she bounds up the porch steps. She kicks at him, and her heel makes contact with his chin, sending him to the ground.

  She opens the front door of his house and stumbles into the foyer. Her hands are shaking as she turns the dead bolt, locking the door behind her.

  “Sam!” she screams, rushing into the living room. “Where are you?”

  “I’m here! Annie!”

  She follows the sound of his voice. Through a kitchen, down a hallway. There’s a door at the end and she throws it open. Sam is inside, lying on the floor, his legs in casts, his cheek bruised and swollen. She clasps her hand to her mouth. “Sam.”

  “You found me,” he says.

  There’s a noise in the living room—Albert is inside—and she closes the door, blocking it with her body. She snatches her phone from her pocket, her hands trembling as she swipes the cracked screen, trying to wake it up. It takes several tries, but she gets it finally.

  “Hurry,” Sam whispers, as she hears Albert’s footsteps in the hallway. She pulls up the phone app as the door slams open behind her, knocking her so hard she drops the phone. She scrambles for it as Albert Bitterman marches into the room, shouting. She reaches for the phone, Albert still yelling, but it’s Sam’s voice that stays with her, calling her name, when the shovel in Albert Bitterman’s hands makes contact with her skull, smashing everything to pieces.

  Chapter 53

  “No!” Sam screams. “Annie!” He crawls toward her as Albert leans down and picks up her phone. “Come on, Annie, say something.” Albert is standing in the doorway, a gash on his chin, the shovel hanging limply from his hands. “Why, Albert? Why did you do that?”

  “You told her to call the police,” Albert says, his body trembling, his face ghost-white. “You said I was dangerous.”

  “Albert—”

  “You said you’d get me help, that you’d come with me to the hospital. But you lied to me, Sam. Again.”

  Albert walks out of the room, and Sam hears him in the kitchen, banging drawers open and shut. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Sam says, crawling his way to Annie. “You’re going to be fine.” He gently pushes back the hair from her face. “We’re both going to be fine.”

  Sam sees it then: a pool of blood spreading from under her head. “Albert, call an ambulance!” he screams. “Call an ambulance. NOW.”

  The kitchen is silent. Albert reappears in the doorway, his jaw trembling. “I can’t do it, Sam.”

  “That’s fine, Albert, I can. Give me her phone,” Sam says. “Come on, man.” Tears slide down his cheeks. “Give me Annie’s phone so I can get her help.”

  Albert spots the blood spreading from under Annie’s head. “Look what I’ve done.” Covering his face with his hands, he starts to weep.

  “Please just give me her phone,” Sam pleads. “I’ll help you, I promise. We’ll go to the hospital,” he sobs. “I swear to god. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I hate to say it, Dr. Statler, but I think you might be suffering from a grandiose sense of self-importance. We both know you don’t have the power to keep me from prison.” Albert leans his head against the door and closes his eyes. “I’m tired.”

  “You can sleep,” Sam says. “At the hospital.”

  “I told you, I’m not going to the hospital.” He’s slurring his words.

  “Albert?” Sam says. “Are you okay?”

  Albert laughs, and his knees buckle. “You don’t have to flatter me anymore, my dear Dr. Statler,” he says, sliding down the door. He keeps talking, but Sam can’t make out what he’s saying, and then he goes quiet, slumping over, his head hitting the floor with an echoing clunk. Something falls from his hand and rolls toward Sam: an empty pill bottle. Sam picks it up and reads the label. “Margaret Statler. Zolpidem, 15mg at bedtime.”

  His mother’s pills.

  Albert was drugging him with his mother’s pills. It happens again—he starts laughing: a loud, delirious cackle that rises up from inside of him, carrying with it a wave of fear and panic more powerful than anything he’s ever known. He drags himself toward Albert and digs in his empty pockets for Annie’s phone.

  “Yoohoo! Albert?” He stops cold. It’s a woman’s voice, coming from the kitchen. “Anyone home. The door was open—”

  “I’m here!” Sam screams. “I’m back here!”

  “Albert, is that you? I saw Annie’s car, and I have something for her—” He hears footsteps, and then the door opens. It’s Sidney Pigeon. She’s wearing workout clothes and is holding a baking dish.

  “Oh my god,” she gasps, her hand flying to her mouth, the dish falling to the floor, sour cream and refried beans splashing into the air. “Sam?”

  Epilogue

  Sam hears the cart rattling down the hallway, outside the room, just as he’s falling asleep. He bolts upright and opens his eyes. The footsteps get closer, and he waits, immobilized, for the sound of the key in the lock.

  But the sound passes and he exhales, reminding himself he’s not at the Lawrence House. He’s at Rushing Waters, reclined in his mother’s favorite chair, where he must have dozed off after the Wednesday lunch special, fettuccine alfredo. Margaret’s asleep in her bed, and he clicks off the television and kicks the footrest into place, checking the time. He has to go meet the movers.

  He stretches his legs and stops at Margaret’s bed to fix her blankets before sneaking into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. He signs out at the reception desk, passing a woman on her way in. She pauses and does a double take.

  That’s right, lady, he thinks. It’s me.

  He guessed correctly: the story is a big deal. Six months since the tabloids got wind of things, and they continue to outdo each other, competing for who can snap the creepiest photo of the Lawrence House, enticing shoppers at the checkout lines with yet another interview with “The Neighbor Who Called 911!”

  Sam was impressed with Sidney Pigeon’s take-charge attitude about the whole thing. On the phone to 911, summoning the chief of police and an ambulance that apparently took no more than four minutes to arrive. It was the same driver who had come for the body of Agatha Lawrence three years before, this time arriving to cart away her biological son, who’d died in the same room. Cause of death: overdose of zolpidem, leading to cardiac arrest. In other words, Albert put himself to sleep and then died of a broken heart.

  The Monster of Chestnut Hill. That’s what people have come to call Albert, and Sam has to admit it’s catchy. But one thing they haven’t written about Albert Bitterman is that, like his mother, he was found to be generous at the time of his death. He took care of Sam’s debt. The copies of the credit card bills Sam had discovered in the purple binder—Albert wasn’t merely filing them away for posterity. He was also paying them down, sending out checks, wiping it all away, as well as making a hefty donation to Rushing Waters that would cover, among other things, Margaret Statler’s room and board for the next thirty years.

  Sam puts the car into drive and is about to pull out when he sees the green Mini Cooper speeding into the parking lot toward him. The car stops next to his, and Annie
rolls down her window.

  “What are you doing?” Sam asks. “It’s my day to visit.”

  “I know.” She nods at the passenger seat. “Get in.”

  “Why? I thought you said I had to meet the movers.”

  “I lied. They’re coming tomorrow. Get in.”

  Sam does as he’s told. “Where are we going?” he asks, buckling his seat belt.

  “You’ll have to wait and see,” she says, plugging in her phone and hitting play on a song list marked “SAM.” Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough” blares as she pulls out of the parking lot. At the bottom of the hill she heads out of town, toward the interstate. He puts it together. It’s the chase.

  “We robbed a bank,” he whispers, venturing a guess, adrenaline rushing. “And we’re making a quick getaway.”

  “Wrong,” she says.

  They drive another few minutes. “You’re an Uber driver, and you’re kidnapping me.”

  She shoots him a look. “Too soon, Sam,” she says, turning up the music.

  He leans his head back and keeps his eyes on her as she drives. She’s prettier than ever with short hair. She required one hundred and six stitches in her scalp, and suffered a serious concussion, but she’s recovered. As has he—physically, at least. Albert was telling the truth: Sam’s legs weren’t broken. It was eventually determined through security footage obtained by the police that Albert took the supplies to cast Sam’s legs from the closet at the Rushing Waters Elderly Care Center, where he was a volunteer companion at bingo twice a week. It’s how he got the pills, too; swiped them from Margaret’s stash, left unattended on a medical cart in her room. Albert replaced them with uncoated ibuprofen, an infraction that cost the head nurse and two staff members their jobs.

  That said, it hasn’t been easy. While his nightmares are decreasing in frequency, the anxiety remains, and he hasn’t returned to seeing patients. His dream office is no longer available, for obvious reasons, and even if that wasn’t the case, he’s been afraid the dynamic would be too disrupted. Every time he’s run into patients, it’s been painfully awkward. But he’s ready to get back to work—in New York. They’re moving back next week. Annie accepted a position at Hunter College, and they’re moving into a two-bedroom in Brooklyn, keeping the house for visits back to see Margaret every few weekends.