The Narrows(60)

“Nothin’ there now.”

He backed away from the window, chewing loudly. Maggie knew that something was wrong with him. He had been more subdued than usual, even friendly with her. When she had forgotten to make dinner he had said nothing; he’d nuked some food and had even offered her some, which she had politely declined. Not to mention that today was his day off, which he usually spent down at Crossroads, but for whatever reason he had opted to stick around the house with her. He was like a dark and lingering shadow haunting the periphery of her vision at every turn.

She turned a page and hoped he didn’t notice the way her hand trembled. At her back, she could feel the encroaching darkness pressing against the windows, against her shoulders and the nape of her neck. Even with the yard’s floodlights on, the darkness could creep into the house and get her, like living smoke.

That’s because you can’t escape from the things you’ve done, said the head-voice. She winced as it echoed through her skull. The things you’ve done will always come back home to you.

At different times in her life, she’d heard the head-voice. It usually came to her in moments of stress or self-doubt, and it always came to her in moments of self-loathing. It had been there chattering away in her head—albeit less pronounced than it was now—as she prepared to meet Tom Schuler at Crossroads. It had been even louder after she had made love to him. And then later that night, out on Full Hill Road…

She had always assumed that the head-voice had belonged, in some way, to her father. Aaron Kilpatrick had found a way to haunt her from the grave, to always be with her and tell her what a pathetic loser she was, and how she would never have a good life because she was not a good person. You are not a good person, Margaret. The sound was like a ringing in her ears.

But she had been wrong; the head-voice was not some clinging filament of her dead father.

It was the baby. The baby she had so recklessly dismissed in her jaded youth.

And now, somehow, the head-voice had finally manifested itself in tangible form—in life. The child she had hit with her car out on Full Hill Road was her child. After all these years, after all the horrible things she had done, it had finally come back for her…

It had come back.

Evan grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned the TV on. Grunting, he dropped into the armchair and flipped absently through the channels, his half-eaten bowl of macaroni and cheese balanced on one knee. Maggie hardly registered him; she was still worried about the encroaching darkness and the child that was out there waiting for her, probably standing out there just beyond the reach of the floodlights. It had gotten Tom Schuler—she had seen Tom standing beside the smallish figure that night by the willow tree, though not clearly and without definition. And then…when it had come up to one of the windows, its pale and hairless head gleaming like a skull in the moonlight…

I’m home, Mom.

Her moan must have been audible because Evan glanced over and met her eyes. The look on his face was not one of confusion or concern. Maggie thought her husband looked like he knew something was going on with her. Almost as if he knew specifically what was going on.

Without saying a word to her, he turned back to the TV. Some old John Wayne movie was on AMC.

Maggie closed the book. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Evan said nothing.

“I can make you something else to eat when I get out,” she added.

“This is fine,” he said, picking up the bowl of macaroni and cheese. “This is dandy.”

He’s making fun of me. He doesn’t talk that way. He knows something is up.

Still trembling, she made her way down the hallway and into the bathroom off the master bedroom before hot and silent tears spilled down her face. She did not turn on any lights. Instead, she went to the small bathroom window and peered through the slatted blinds into the yard. In the dirt turnabout, the VW and Pontiac sat side by side. Shapes capered in the darkness beyond the reach of the floodlights. The longer she stared at the darkness, the more shapes seemed to taunt and tease her.

I’m out here, Mom, but I’ll be home soon. I’ll be inside soon. I’ve come back. Just wait till you see where I’ve been all these years when you thought I was dead, when you thought I was nonexistent. Just wait till you see what I look like…

While she stared out the window, the floodlights went off. At the far end of the house, she could hear Evan moving around, mumbling to himself.

She turned on the shower and waited for the water to turn warm while she undressed. She kept the lights off, for she did not want to allow anything outside to see in through the blinds or even know what room of the house she was in. Her body felt alien, her skin pimpled with goose bumps that felt like braille. Her nipples pained her, engorged and hard for some reason. Her feet felt numb.

In the dark, it was like showering in a coffin. She smelled the mildew between the tiles and felt the needling of the water. When the water turned cool, she wondered how long she had been standing beneath it. She hadn’t even washed—just stood there, weeping silently to herself, terrified.

It was after ten when she got out, toweled off, and dressed in sweatpants and a Crossroads tank top. The house was eerily silent. She went into the living room to find it empty. The kitchen was also empty, as was Evan’s work area in the basement. Back upstairs, she flipped on the floodlights and found the VW Beetle gone. Evan had left.