Rise: How a House Built a Family(69)

I was hyperaware, over-the-top vigilant. All while smiling peacefully enough that Hope and Drew could walk across the street to their elementary school without watching their backs, and toddler Jada wouldn’t cling too tight.

It’s impossible to watch every step, to keep your guard up every second. So now and then I slipped. Most of the time everything was okay. Most of the time I could take out the trash without seeing a bogeyman. Most of the time slipups didn’t matter. Until the times they did.

“You all right?” The voice was low, gentle, and close. Too close.

It opened my throat like a key. “Akraham! Teckrip!” I said. And if I had a minute to think, I was sure, I could translate the ancient words into modern English. But I didn’t have a minute. All my minutes might have found an end exactly halfway up my long, dusty driveway. Adam stood a step away from the gravel, where his footsteps were silent. A thick patch of dandelions bent under his right shoe, suffocating. Jada’s favorite weed-flower.

I looked past him at the house. Just on the other side of that door Karma was waiting, ready to defend me. But she hadn’t come with me tonight, and I couldn’t beat Adam in a footrace, not when his chin was lifted off his chest and the drool cleared away. Not when his feet were lifting high enough to stomp dandelions—not when he was off his meds.

“Are you all right, Cara?” he repeated. It was the old Adam, the one I’d loved deeply before his mind slipped away. He had so much charisma that my knees felt weak from more than terror, and I was mad at him for still affecting me. There in the starlight, it was impossible to believe he was the same person who hurt me, who scared me.

“I’m okay,” I said, careful not to sound too okay. Because he wouldn’t want me to feel like I really did—happy to be free of him and building a life of my own. We’d been divorced several years. He would want me to be tortured by the loss of him.

“Are the kids okay? You look really beautiful. You have always been beautiful.”

“The kids are good. Busy with end-of-school stuff.”

“You shouldn’t be out without a bra.” His chest pushed forward, shoulders back, and I knew what was next, the finger poking at my sternum, shoving the point home.

“I was just taking the trash out. And it’s dark. The kids didn’t get the can up. You know how they are with chores. Scattered as always.” I crossed my arms across my chest. The sleep shirt I had put on after my shower was thin, not something I would normally wear outside. I don’t have to explain anything. I’m not your business. Not anymore. You aren’t welcome here. Go!

Instead of driving his point home, he pinched his fingers across his eyes and held the bridge of his nose. “You heard what Dr. Christe said? Schizophrenia?” His voice choked in a genuine sob. “I’m sorry, Cara. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Just that quick I wanted to tell him it was okay, that I was sorry, too. He looked so weak, so vulnerable and lost that I wanted to hug him. I didn’t want him back, though, not even then. I was sorry—not stupid. It was a cruel twist of fate. A goddamned shame. But I still didn’t want him back. “I’m sorry, too,” I whispered. “Dr. Christe says there’s medicine, things that—”

“That’s why they did this.” His voice was low and the words were almost too fast to process. “They did this thing to my brain. An implant or a beam or however the hell they do it. They did this because they wanted me to take those pills that kill everything. Do you hear me? They kill everything inside. They know how important my ideas are, and they want them without the threat of having to pay me. They know my ideas could change everything. Everything. I just have to write them down. And when I take their damn pills I can’t write a damn thing. Too shaky. Too dead. I’m going to write it, though. I’m going to make enough to take care of you and the kids. I can support my wife. You know that, right? You know I can.”

In the early days I had traveled right along with him on his path to madness, believed the little tales that built into something so fantastical that I realized it was impossible. Even then I’d been generous when I tried to sort fact from fiction, giving him the benefit of the doubt when a story had reasonable evidence. The day after his diagnosis of schizophrenia I’d even wondered briefly if it was all a trick, if he was fooling them somehow in order to save us from real bad guys who wanted the things in his brilliant mind. I wanted to believe that because it would be so much nicer than the ugliness of what had really happened, so much happier than the sad truth of schizophrenia. Watching him now, I had no doubts. He had rarely talked to me like this; he’d been a little paranoid sometimes, but usually believable, sane enough to pass muster. A wave of pity hit my stomach with such force that I dropped both hands there and gagged. I took a step forward, toward the house. I needed a glass of water, something to settle my stomach and drown my guilt. Maybe he knew that and wanted to stop me, or maybe he thought I was taking a step closer to him.

He took three steps, scissoring sideways to cut in front of me. The dandelions he’d stood on leapt up. They can breathe. They can finally breathe. But I couldn’t. I froze. His breath puffed across my face, hot on my eyes. Even though he wasn’t touching me, I could feel his heat. His eyes were clear with the intensity that used to melt hearts but had mine building heat and speed.

“The kids are done with school? I’m going to kill you.” He was as matter-of-fact as if he were telling me what he had for dinner. “I know they did well. They’re smart.”