Read Online B000FCJYE6 EBOK by Marya Hornbacher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marya Hornbacher
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experts himself. Goddammit.
It was good to have a word.
There was a pause. My mother asked, “Do you think they’ll put him into State?”
My father shook his head. “Could be. I almost hope so. We can’t keep paying for this.” He put his head in his hands. “Do you know what this means?” he said quietly. “I will have failed. Do you understand that? Failed.”
My mother turned from the window then and looked at my father. “No,” she said. She touched his shoulder, and went down the hall to the bathroom.
I went out to my father where he sat and waited at his elbow until he picked me up and put me on his lap. Together, we looked at the place where my mother had been.
Somehow the day disappeared. My father’s voice rumbled on the phone, and then he went into the bathroom and wrapped Esau in a quilt. He carried him, looking like a quilted cocoon, to his bedroom. I listened to my mother in the kitchen and went down the hall to sit where I could watch her. I heard my father close Esau’s door and watched him go to the bar.
His voice sounded like someone talking underwater.
“I’ve put him down,” he said.
“What time are we taking him in?” asked my mother, accepting the drink he handed her as he entered the kitchen.
“They said early afternoon. Need to leave around ten.” He leaned back against the counter, set his glass down, and put the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Do you know what he said to me?” he asked.
My mother shook her head, staring down at the pan on the stove.
“He said—he looked right at me, you know how he does? How he gets clear for a minute, like the fog just lifts for a second? He looked at me and said, ‘Dad, it’s better in here.’ Like to reassure me.”
My father laughed as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “And I didn’t know what he meant. Better where? In the blankets? In the hospital? He doesn’t know where he is, Claire. In his mind, maybe? He said, ‘It’s quiet now.’ Before he fell asleep. ‘It’s quiet.’”
He fumbled behind him for his drink, his mouth moving.
My mother turned and offered him a plate of mac and cheese, and he knocked it out of her hand. A splat of yellow hit the wall by the new avocado-colored phone that matched the fridge.
Then he cried.
My mother’s hand hovered in midair. She put it on his arm. He jerked away, bumping into his drink, the glass skidding on the counter, sloshing a little. He leaned against the hallway wall and bent over, his fists against his stomach.
“What have I done?” he said.
Then he walked into the living room and put his fist through the window.
Cold wind exploded into the room as if it had been pressing up against the glass, a dark animal rubbing its skin against the house, looking for a way to get in.
He stared at his arm, distracted. What little blood there was, what with the cold, froze to his skin in black dribbles of ice.
He walked down the hall. The front door shut and the car started, its wheels crunching through the snow.
My mother came into the living room and rested her hands on the back of the couch, looking at the black hole where the window had been. The oak tree behind the house seemed to have come inside to stand between the La-Z-Boy and the TV, its boughs sagging with snow, blue in the moonlight that poured into the room. Wind picked up the dry snow and sent it hissing over the windowsill, small drifts piling against the furniture, settling into the corners of chairs.
I went to my mom. We looked at the window together.
“We can’t leave it like that,” I said. “Can we?”
She shook her head.
“Should I get a blanket?”
She pushed herself off the back of the couch, and we got blankets from the linen closet. I held them while my mother threw them over the curtain rod. My hands got cold.
My mother dropped her arms when she was done, and said, “Go to bed now, Kate.” She turned and went to her room.
I stood there, looking around. The
It was good to have a word.
There was a pause. My mother asked, “Do you think they’ll put him into State?”
My father shook his head. “Could be. I almost hope so. We can’t keep paying for this.” He put his head in his hands. “Do you know what this means?” he said quietly. “I will have failed. Do you understand that? Failed.”
My mother turned from the window then and looked at my father. “No,” she said. She touched his shoulder, and went down the hall to the bathroom.
I went out to my father where he sat and waited at his elbow until he picked me up and put me on his lap. Together, we looked at the place where my mother had been.
Somehow the day disappeared. My father’s voice rumbled on the phone, and then he went into the bathroom and wrapped Esau in a quilt. He carried him, looking like a quilted cocoon, to his bedroom. I listened to my mother in the kitchen and went down the hall to sit where I could watch her. I heard my father close Esau’s door and watched him go to the bar.
His voice sounded like someone talking underwater.
“I’ve put him down,” he said.
“What time are we taking him in?” asked my mother, accepting the drink he handed her as he entered the kitchen.
“They said early afternoon. Need to leave around ten.” He leaned back against the counter, set his glass down, and put the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Do you know what he said to me?” he asked.
My mother shook her head, staring down at the pan on the stove.
“He said—he looked right at me, you know how he does? How he gets clear for a minute, like the fog just lifts for a second? He looked at me and said, ‘Dad, it’s better in here.’ Like to reassure me.”
My father laughed as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “And I didn’t know what he meant. Better where? In the blankets? In the hospital? He doesn’t know where he is, Claire. In his mind, maybe? He said, ‘It’s quiet now.’ Before he fell asleep. ‘It’s quiet.’”
He fumbled behind him for his drink, his mouth moving.
My mother turned and offered him a plate of mac and cheese, and he knocked it out of her hand. A splat of yellow hit the wall by the new avocado-colored phone that matched the fridge.
Then he cried.
My mother’s hand hovered in midair. She put it on his arm. He jerked away, bumping into his drink, the glass skidding on the counter, sloshing a little. He leaned against the hallway wall and bent over, his fists against his stomach.
“What have I done?” he said.
Then he walked into the living room and put his fist through the window.
Cold wind exploded into the room as if it had been pressing up against the glass, a dark animal rubbing its skin against the house, looking for a way to get in.
He stared at his arm, distracted. What little blood there was, what with the cold, froze to his skin in black dribbles of ice.
He walked down the hall. The front door shut and the car started, its wheels crunching through the snow.
My mother came into the living room and rested her hands on the back of the couch, looking at the black hole where the window had been. The oak tree behind the house seemed to have come inside to stand between the La-Z-Boy and the TV, its boughs sagging with snow, blue in the moonlight that poured into the room. Wind picked up the dry snow and sent it hissing over the windowsill, small drifts piling against the furniture, settling into the corners of chairs.
I went to my mom. We looked at the window together.
“We can’t leave it like that,” I said. “Can we?”
She shook her head.
“Should I get a blanket?”
She pushed herself off the back of the couch, and we got blankets from the linen closet. I held them while my mother threw them over the curtain rod. My hands got cold.
My mother dropped her arms when she was done, and said, “Go to bed now, Kate.” She turned and went to her room.
I stood there, looking around. The
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