Big Woods Page 5

  The cardiologist, a tall man with thinning hair, met me in the waiting room and explained that, in his opinion, even without an autopsy (which I declined, I knew it wouldn’t change a thing), John had suffered an inevitable, massive heart attack—something I later learned they called the “widow maker.”

  A widow at thirty-seven. I was too young to just stop living but too old to start over. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I took a leave of absence until further notice. Dr. Sloane was very understanding and told me to take as much time off as I needed.

  I thought about what to do next. I considered retiring early—I could’ve, there was a small insurance policy as well as John’s pension—but I was worried it wouldn’t carry me through. And I considered moving to Florida to live with Evelyn (she had offered). But the idea of living in Florida was much better than the reality of living in Florida: I kept picturing sunny days at the beach, but Evelyn’s place was a hard twelve-block walk from the shore and she spent most of her days inside her coral-painted condo watching game shows and fussing over her five cats. I knew we’d make each other crazy.

  Two weeks after John died I drove out to the plant to clear out his desk. They had left everything untouched, which was a sensitive gesture but made it all the more gut-wrenching.

  I went while everyone else was out to lunch and filled three cardboard boxes with his things: our wedding picture, his grandfather’s pocket watch, the last ledger he had written in. I drove home and started in on his things downstairs: his jacket, his billfold (still in a plastic bag from the hospital), and his shoes—immediate stuff that I couldn’t bear to look at anymore, things that made me still believe I’d hear him pulling in the driveway. I sealed them up and set the boxes out in the garage.

  21

  Leah

  Thursday, October 19th, 1989

  Lucy missing 2 weeks, 6 days

  After that morning with Carla Ray, Dad became more unhinged. He began drinking openly at breakfast, cracking open bottles of Pearl Light and barely picking at his food. He believed Carla Ray, I could tell, and this morning while Mom was outside sweeping brittle leaves off the front porch, Dad stepped into his office and called the sheriff to see if she had anymore updates. But we would never hear about Carla Ray again.

  This afternoon while I was laying on the couch reading, Mom announced that she and Dad would be returning to work in the morning. I thought it was too soon, but I knew she was trying to shake Dad out of it. She explained that she was just going in for a half-day to clear off her desk to get ready for the following week. Mom didn’t press me into going back to school just yet, but she insisted I go to the Fall Harvest Dance with Scott tomorrow night. I wasn’t ready to face all of my classmates, but I was itching to escape the house and the sticky, heavy air that had grown between Mom and Dad, so I agreed.

  Now it’s Friday, midmorning. Grandpa’s here with me while Mom and Dad are at work. He is a grouchy widower and smells like Folger’s instant coffee and Skoal, but he always lets me do whatever I want, so I like it when he babysits. I just finished a whole box of Fruit-Rollups and an entire sleeve of Pringles and now we’re watching television together. Grandpa has turned it to M.A.S.H., which I secretly hate, but I play along anyway, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

  I feel sorry for him, even though he’s grumpy. He has been stopping by every day since Lucy vanished, and he now has a far-off look in his eyes and seems even more bewildered than usual, so I feel even sorrier for him. I lean into him and let his rough hands tousle my hair.

  When Mom gets home a few hours later, Grandpa snaps out of a nap and smooths out the wrinkles in his button-down shirt before kissing me goodbye and leaving. Mom juggles in some grocery bags and starts dinner. I watch as she shakes three pork chops in a large paper sack filled with flour, salt, and pepper. She then drops red potatoes into a pot of boiling water and begins chopping vegetables for a salad.

  Once the potatoes are finished, I pitch in and begin mashing them, mixing in cheddar cheese and butter and spooning them into a serving bowl. As Mom begins frying the pork chops, I set the table. This is the first family dinner we’ve prepared since Lucy’s been gone, and my hands tremble as I set out three plates instead of the usual four, but I fight back the tears and try to slip into a routine of quietly working next to Mom.

  Dinner is starting to cool, so we begin without Dad. I look out of the corner of my eye and study Mom’s profile. In the late-day light she looks older. Her eyes are swollen and puffy as if she’s been crying all day, something I hadn’t noticed until now. Mom catches me staring at her and puts down her fork. She draws in a deep breath but then tears fill her eyes. It’s one of the few times Mom has let me see her cry.

  “Oh, honey.” She takes my hand. “What are we gonna do without our Lucy?”

  I’m about to answer but the moment passes as soon as it had arrived. Mom jumps up and clears the table and says with a forced cheerfulness. “Now, I bet you need to start getting ready for that dance tonight.”

  I go upstairs and get dressed. I choose a simple black shirt. The only festive clothing I can muster enough energy to put on is a pair of acid-washed jeans. I pull my hair up in a banana clip and run a light layer of mascara over my lashes. I wait upstairs, staring out the window, watching for Scott’s headlights to appear.

  22

  Sylvia

  After being off for a month, I went back to work, and it was the only thing that kept me going.

  That first year was the hardest. Weekends were especially tough, so I made sure I went to church each Sunday. At first, I hated the pitying stares and I didn’t find comfort in other people the way that some folks might, but I kept it up anyway, just to keep me out of the empty house.

  On a bright January morning, almost a year to the day that John passed, Dr. Sloane pulled me aside and asked if I would mind filling in for the hospital’s psychiatric unit. They were in need, he explained, and were having a hard time finding a replacement. I would need to commit for at least a week and it would be all night shifts. At first, I thought it would be grueling, but I actually found it to be a relief: no more lonely nights at home.

  The psych unit was located in the basement of the hospital. You had to punch in a security code to enter, and a set of double glass doors whooshed open, slapping sheets of hot, antiseptic air in your face.

  It was much like nursing on any other floor—you made your rounds and took care of your patients—except it was a locked unit so security guards had to wheel in the food carts and sometimes you had to watch your back. I got jumped once by a wiry man who was coming off of heroin, but the orderlies happened to be right there and restrained the guy right away.

  When the patients first came to us they had usually been off their meds and acting out in public, so they were brought in to get leveled out again. Some were homeless, some may have been living in shelters, and others might have been at home, just disregarding the doctor’s orders so that when their bodies got free of the meds they were out of control.

  When they first arrived, we were ordered to sedate them pretty heavily, so they were docile, for the most part. It could be demanding at times, but the challenge of the work helped lift me out of my grief. Also, the pay was nearly double because the work was so dangerous, and if I worked holidays (which I usually did), I got paid even more. It was a cash cow, but that’s not the reason I stayed on that week and then on permanently for twenty-seven more years.

  I stayed on for the camaraderie.

  The floor was supervised by the chief nurse, Hattie Banks, a formidable woman with a head of tight black curls that were just beginning to turn silver. She smelled like fresh-pressed laundry and the lilac lotion she was always working into her hands. Hattie had run the unit for nearly twenty years and was its first black female supervisor. She and her team were efficient. They were experienced psychiatric nurses and knew what to watch for—the side effec
ts of the medicine, the swift changes in patients’ behavior—and to me, they were role models and sources of assurance. I knew they had my back and I’d never worked with nurses with that level of expertise.

  The unit was overseen by a short, cranky, red-faced man named Dr. Marshall who was disliked by most. But he did his rounds in the morning and we rarely had to see him on the night shift.

  And everyone knew it was Hat’s floor. She was tough on the outside, and at first, I didn’t think she liked me all that much. But late one night we got to talking and figured out that we had a lot in common. Reading, for one.

  The night shift could be strangely serene, so you could bring in busy work. Most of the patients were knocked out and sleeping. It was lights out at ten thirty. Some of the patients were allowed to go to the rec room to watch TV or play games, but most were not able to because of the heavy medication, so a hush would fall over the floor.

  Hattie would do needlepoint and I would crochet, or write letters to Evelyn. Most of the other nurses would huddle around the coffeepot and gossip, but Hat and I would sit in a quiet corner and swap magazines—I’d bring in National Geographic for her and she’d bring in Reader’s Digest for me—and we’d tell each other about our lives.

  She was my one true friend after John died, and in many ways, Hattie saved my life.

  23

  Leah

  Friday, October 20th, 1989

  Lucy missing 3 weeks

  I’m back home early from the dance; my heart is still racing.

  Scott picked me up earlier in his black Nissan truck. It’s small but souped up with big tires and a loud stereo system that makes the dashboard glimmer like a Christmas tree. Scott just got his license, and he’s proud of the thumping bass and likes to crank it up so that other cars notice. I could hear his stereo from down the street but thankfully he turned it down before pulling into our driveway.

  “Please be safe,” Mom called out to me as I was walking toward his truck.

  When I got in, Scott didn’t ask me a bunch of awkward questions, he just sweetly squeezed my hand and set it on his knee, holding it there until we got to the church where the dance was being held.

  We pulled up to the white-rock building—the dance was in the basement—and Scott turned to me, saying, “Look, we don’t even have to go in if you don’t want to.”

  I considered leaving, but I also didn’t feel like driving around for hours alone with Scott. “No, I can do it. Let’s go.”

  It was still stifling outside, but when Scott led me through the thick wooden door to the basement, it was freezing cold and dark. Strobe lights beamed off the walls pulsing to the music, and the odor of the smoke machine made me feel dizzy. He took my hand and led me around the room. All eyes were trained on me. I was mostly met with sad, pitiful smiles and half waves until Ali burst in front of us with a pushy, over-exaggerated hug.

  “How are you? I am so sorry, sweetie.” Ali was a cheerleader and was always making big displays of emotion, trying to grab the spotlight. In that instance, I cringed; I couldn’t remember why we were friends, or what I even liked about her. I started to answer Ali but she was already chatting up Scott, thanking him for bringing me to the dance.

  The next song that came on was the Cutting Crew’s “I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight,” and I was relieved when Scott pulled me away from Ali and onto the dance floor. I clasped my hands around his neck, still sweaty from the night heat. We tried to settle into a groove, but the song really was too fast, making it awkward to keep time to. Scott kept stepping on my toes with his Cole Haans and we both became flustered, so we followed the other fumbling couples off the dance floor.

  I looked around the room and saw my old best friend, Nicolette, in the corner with her boyfriend, Damien. She was looking up at him and twirling her hands through his hair as he held her close, his arms roped around her back. I left Scott by the drink stand and went over to her.

  We’d been best friends since third grade. We had the same homeroom class that year and were seated next to each other according to the roll call: Nicolette Rossi and Leah Spencer. I liked how different Nicolette was from the other girls—she was easily the prettiest girl in the class with raven hair and a Liz Taylor smile, but also, there was something wise about her and she possessed a mischievousness that I envied. On the playground during recess one day, she turned to me and asked if I would be her best friend. “Forever and ever, promise?” Nicolette had said, flashing her wide grin. Lucy was my best friend but Nicolette was irresistible so I said, “Yes, forever and ever.”

  We became inseparable. We went to slumber parties and birthday parties and were friends with other girls in our class, but we kept a moat around our perfect friendship, not letting anyone else get too close to us.

  Mom and Dad adored Nicolette, and her parents, Nick and Florence, would clasp my cheeks in their hands and call me Little Bella every time I saw them. They were originally from Italy. Mr. Rossi was a well-respected heart surgeon and when he came to Dallas once for a conference, he fell in love with Texas, with the wide-open skies and barbecue and decided to bring his new bride to America. Soon, they had Nick, and then Nicolette, their offspring just as dazzling as they were.

  I loved going to their house. It was always warm and open with company drifting in and out—their windows and doors were always open, too—and the air was thick and dreamy with towering houseplants and sliced fruit resting in glass bowls, the sounds of classical piano always tinkling in the background from the stereo. Just outside their back door, there was a crushed granite path that led to a huge, jungly garden and a glittering pool.

  When we hit middle school, Nicolette blossomed overnight, becoming bustier and more like a teenager while I was stuck with my flat brown hair and training bra and braces. Nothing bad had happened between us—we didn’t have a fight or anything—but during the summer before eighth grade, we started drifting apart. Instead of spending endless hours with Nicolette by her pool reading Seventeen magazine, I watched her being swarmed by eighth-grade boys and even some high school boys. She always tried to include me, but I felt left out and awkward watching her make out with a handsome boy while I sat parked in my swimsuit in a lawn chair, dazed by the sun, sipping on a Sprite.

  When we got to high school, we slowly went our separate ways. Now she spent all her time with Damien, a hazel-eyed junior with curly blond hair. Damien was edgy and good-looking and drove a black convertible Mustang.

  And I joined the yearbook staff and fell into the group of giggly girls I had always tried so hard to avoid.

  As I got closer to Nicolette and Damien, I saw him point in my direction and whisper something in her ear. Nicolette broke away from him and looped her arm through mine, guiding me toward the bathroom so we could talk. It was as if no time had passed between us.

  “Have you guys heard anything at all?” she asked.

  “No. Nothing,” I said, my throat tightening into a lump.

  “I’m so sorry, Leah. Lu is like a sister to me, too. I really don’t know what to say.”

  She pulled me into her and we both started sobbing. She took my face in her hands and wiped away my tears while smoothing out my bangs. “My parents really want you to come to the house. Mom wants to cook for you. Whenever you’re ready, okay?”

  We walked back inside the dance. Scott was talking to Damien. They were discussing Lucy, I could tell, because as soon as we walked up they both fell silent.

  The DJ then put on “With or Without You” by U2. I looked at Nicolette and saw a look of concern flash across her face. U2 is Lucy’s favorite band. As the opening notes of the song filtered through the room—the haunting sound of the keyboard like a call from the sea—I felt my stomach coil into a knot and thought I might be sick. I raced for the door, across the dance floor, and tried to push my way through the couples that had already started to lock together and sway. The lyrics
rang in my ears as I scanned the room for the exit, and all I could think was this: Lucy might never get to go to a high school dance.

  Scott was right behind me and pushed down on the metal bar that clanked open the heavy door that led outside. We stepped into the parking lot. He wrapped his arms around me tightly, letting me cry. After a moment, I looked up at him. He leaned in to kiss me, but I just shook my head.

  “Can we just go?” I asked.

  Scott is driving toward my house, and I thought he was taking me home, but now he’s turned down a cul-de-sac a few blocks up. It’s a quiet and dark circle, with only one house set far off the road. He puts the truck in park in front of an empty lot and kills the engine but leaves the stereo playing. He fumbles through his cassettes until he finds one and jams it into the tape deck. He lowers the windows. The air has cooled but the night is still a hot, panting thing.

  He pulls me into him and we start kissing. John Wait’s “Missing You” is playing softly, and for a moment I let myself go, for a moment I enjoy being wrapped up in Scott’s arms. He feels solid, secure. He reaches for my hand and places it on his thigh, then takes his own hand and slips it up the back of my shirt. His fingers feel like warm velvet; my heart is a jagged drum. But when he starts fumbling with my bra clasp, I jerk away.

  “It’s been a while,” he purrs, and starts tracing his fingers back up my spine. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. Suddenly, his truck seems too tiny and I feel overpowered by his cologne—Benetton—he always wears too much, and I find myself annoyed with him, irked by the cheesy song he chose, the very normal, predictable song he always plays when he wants to make out. All at once I feel repelled by Scott, by what his life is—normal—and what mine will never be again. There is a gap between us now that I can’t name, and I can’t wait to get out of his truck.

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

  “But you don’t have to be home for another hour at least. I miss you, I—”