Fever Dream: A Novel(10)

This isn’t the exact moment. Let’s not waste time on this.

Why do we have to go so quickly, David? Is there so little time left?

Very little.

Nina is still in the kitchen, looking at me disconcertedly, shaking off her fear by herself. I pull a chair over so she can sit down, and I start making a snack. I’m very nervous, but doing things with my hands frees me from giving her explanations, it gives me time to think.

“Is David going to eat too?” asks Nina.

I put the kettle on the stove and look upward. I think about your eyes, and I wonder if you’re still standing in the middle of the room.

Why? This is important.

I don’t know. Now that I think about it, you’re not what scares me.

What is?

Do you know what it is, David?

Yes, it has to do with the worms. We’re getting closer and closer to the exact moment.

I sit up in my chair, alert.

Why? What’s happening?

I see you outside, in the yard, and I don’t understand how you got there. I was watching the stairs the whole time. You go over to the sandals Carla left behind, you pick them up, walk to the edge of the pool, and throw them in. You look around and find Carla’s towel and scarf, and you throw those into the water too. My sandals and glasses are nearby, you see them, but they don’t seem to interest you. Now that you are in the sun, I see some spots on your body that I hadn’t noticed before. They’re subtle; one covers the right part of your forehead and almost your whole mouth, other spots cover your arms and one of your legs. You look like Carla, and I think that without the spots you would be a really lovely boy.

What else?

You seem to be leaving, and when you’re finally gone I feel calmer. I open the windows, I sit down for a moment on the living room sofa. It’s a strategic place because from there I can see the front gate, the yard, and the pool, and in the other direction I can keep my eye on the kitchen. Nina is still sitting and eating the last of the cookies; she seems to understand that it isn’t a good time to take her cheerful laps around the house.

And what else?

I make a decision. I realize I don’t want to be here anymore. The rescue distance is so short now I don’t think I can be more than a few steps away from my daughter. The house, its grounds, the whole town seems like an unsafe place after today, and there’s no reason to take any risks. I know that my next move will be to pack our bags and get out of here.

What are you worried about?

I don’t want to spend another night in the house, but leaving right away would mean driving too many hours in the dark. I tell myself I’m just scared, that it’s better to rest so tomorrow I can think about things more clearly. But it’s a terrible night.

Why?

Because I don’t sleep well. I wake up several times. Sometimes I think it’s because the room is too big. The last time I wake up, it’s still dark out. It’s raining, but that’s not what alarms me when I open my eyes. It’s the violet light coming from Nina’s bedside table. I call her name, but she doesn’t answer. I get out of bed and put on my robe. Nina isn’t in her room, or in the bathroom. I go downstairs clutching the railing; I’m still half asleep. The light in the kitchen is on. Nina is sitting at the table, her bare little feet dangling in the air. I wonder if she is sleepwalking, if this is what sleepwalking children do, and also if that’s what you do at night, when Carla says she finds your bed empty and you’re not in the house. But of course, that’s not important now, right?

No.

I take a few more steps toward the kitchen and I see that my husband is there, sitting across the table from Nina. It’s an impossible image—how could he have come in without my hearing him? He’s not supposed to be here until the weekend. I lean against the doorway. Something’s happening, something’s happening, I tell myself, but I’m still half asleep. He has his hands folded on the table, he’s leaning toward Nina and looking at her with his brow furrowed. Then he looks at me.

“Nina has something to tell you,” he says.

But Nina looks at her father and copies the position of his hands on the table. She doesn’t say anything.

“Nina . . .” says my husband.

“I’m not Nina,” says Nina.

She leans back and crosses one leg over the other in a way I have never seen her do before.

“Tell your mother why you aren’t Nina,” says my husband.

“It’s an experiment, Miss Amanda,” she says, and she pushes a can toward me.

My husband takes the can and turns it so I can see the label. It’s a can of peas of a brand I don’t buy, one I would never buy. They’re a bigger, much harder kind of pea than what we eat, coarser and cheaper. A product I would never choose to feed my family with, and that Nina can’t have found in our cupboards. On the table, at that early-morning hour, the can has an alarming presence. This is important, right?

This is very important.

I go over to her.

“Where did this can come from, Nina?” My question sounds harsher than I would like.

And Nina says:

“I don’t know who you’re talking to, Miss Amanda.”

I look at my husband.

“Who are we talking to?” he asks, playing along.

Nina opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She keeps it open for a few seconds, wide open, as if she were screaming, or exactly the opposite, as if she needed a lot of air and couldn’t get it. It’s a terrifying gesture I’ve never seen her make before. My husband leans over the table toward her, then a little more. I think he simply can’t believe it. When Nina finally closes her mouth, he suddenly sits down again, as if someone had been holding him up the whole time by an invisible lapel, and now they’d let go of him.