The Obsession(22)

Behind them his eyes were pale, quiet blue.

He glanced around. “Maybe you’ve got like a Coke or whatever. No point leaving empty-handed.”

“Sure, we’ve always got Cokes. Do you remember where the kitchen is?”

“Yeah. This house is totally cool. You want a Coke while I’m at it?”

“Grab two.” She yanked off her gloves, stuffed them in the pocket of her coat.

He gave her that half-smirking grin, the one that curled the side of his mouth. “Maybe you got chips?”

She rolled her eyes, plucked off her cap. “Probably. Get whatever. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time—we got twenty-five left on our pass. Hey! This yours?”

He walked up to a black-and-white photo study of an old man dozing on a park bench with a floppy-eared mutt curled beside him.

“Yeah. I gave it to Harry for his birthday a couple weeks ago. And he put it up right in the foyer.”

“Excelente work, Carson.”

“Thanks, Chaffins.”

Amused—he called everyone by their last name, insisted everyone use his—she started upstairs.

It surprised her to see Kong sitting outside her mother’s bedroom door. His habit was to wait in Mason’s room, or, in better weather, belly out through the dog door to sun on the patio—or do what he had to do in the corner designated for it.

“Hey, boy.” She gave him a quick rub as she passed, glanced back when he whined. “No time. Just passing through.”

But he whined again, scratched at her mother’s door. And Naomi felt something flutter and drop in her belly.

“Is Mama home?” Had the good stretch come to a dip?

Her mother should be at work, with Harry and Seth. There was, she knew, a party of twenty-two coming in for a retirement lunch, so it was all hands on deck.

Naomi eased the door open, saw that the curtains had been drawn closed—a bad sign. And saw in the dim light her mother lying on top of the bed.

“Mama.”

She wore the red sweater they’d bought on their shopping spree rather than her white work shirt and black vest.

Kong jumped on the bed—something he was only allowed to do in Mason’s room—licked her mother’s hand, and whimpered.

Her mother lay so still.

“Mama,” Naomi said again, and switched on the bedside lamp.

So still, so pale—and her eyes weren’t quite shut.

“Mama. Mama.” Naomi gripped Susan’s shoulder, shook. Took her hand, found it cold. “Mama! Wake up. Wake up!”

The pills were right there, there by the lamp. No, not the pills, the bottle. The empty bottle.

“Wake up!” Gripping her mother’s hands, she pulled. Susan’s head lolled, fell forward. “Stop it. Stop it.” She tried to get her arms around Susan, pull her off the bed.

On her feet, on her feet, make her walk.

“Hey, Carson, what the hell are you shouting about? You need to chill— What . . .”

“Call an ambulance. Call nine-one-one. Hurry, hurry.”

He stood frozen for a moment, staring as Susan’s limp body fell back on the bed, and her eyelids opened like shades to show the staring eyes behind them. “Wow. Is that your mom?”

“Call nine-one-one.” Naomi laid an ear to her mother’s heart, then began to press on it. “She’s not breathing. Tell them to hurry. Tell them she took Elavil. Overdosed on Elavil.”

Staring, he fumbled out his phone, punching in 911 with one hand, shoving up his glasses with the other, while Naomi did CPR, puffing out her breath as she worked.

“Yeah, yeah, we need an ambulance. She overdosed on Eldervil.”

“Elavil!”

“Sorry, Elavil. Crap, Carson, I don’t know the address.”

She called it out while tears ran down her cheeks, mixed with sweat.

“Mama, Mama, please!”

“No, she’s not awake, she’s not moving. Her daughter’s doing CPR. I-I-I don’t know. Maybe, um, like forty.”

“She’s thirty-seven.” Naomi shouted it. “Just hurry.”

“They’re coming.” Anson dropped down beside her, hesitated, then patted Naomi’s shoulder. “She—the operator—she said they were on the way. They’re coming.”

He swallowed, moistened his lips, then touched his fingers to Susan’s hand.

It felt . . . soft and cold. Soft like he could push his fingers through it. Cold like it had lain outside in the winter air.

“Um, oh jeez, Carson. Ah, man, look, hey.” He kept one hand on Susan’s, put his other on Naomi’s shoulder again. “She’s cold, man. I think . . . I think she’s dead.”

“No, no, no, no.” Naomi laid her mouth on her mother’s, blew in her breath, willed her to breathe back.

But there was nothing there. Like the pictures of the women in her father’s cellar, there was nothing left in the eyes but death.

She sat back. She didn’t weep, not yet, but smoothed back her mother’s hair. There was no weight pressing on her chest, no churning in her belly. There was, as in her mother’s eyes, nothing.

She remembered the feeling—the same as when she’d swum through the air toward the sheriff’s office on that hot summer dawn.