Hidden Pictures(82)

I check the clock again—only another minute has passed—and this time, Caroline catches me.

“What are you doing? Why are you looking at the time?”

“No reason.”

“You’re lying. But it doesn’t matter.” She stands and reaches for the tourniquet. Her hands are steady. She’s moving with renewed confidence and control, looping the tourniquet around my arm and knotting it tight. Within moments, my muscles are tingling.

“Please don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, Mallory. I wish things worked out differently.”

I feel her soft gloved fingers tapping on the crook of my arm, coaxing my veins to swell up and cooperate. I realize she’s serious, she intends to go through with this. “You’ll feel guilty for the rest of your life,” I tell her, and I’m so scared I’m sputtering. “You’ll hate yourself. You won’t be able to live with yourself.”

I don’t know why I think I can frighten her into changing her mind. My warning just seems to make her angry. There’s a painful pinch as the needle breaks my skin and punctures the vein. “Look at the bright side,” she tells me. “Maybe you’ll see your sister again.”

And then she drops the plunger, injecting me with two thousand micrograms of heroin and fentanyl, enough to bring down a horse. My whole body seizes up as I feel the familiar first chill—like someone’s placed an ice cube at the injection site. The last thing I see is Caroline hurrying out the door and turning out the lights. She won’t even stay to watch me die. I close my eyes and plead with God to forgive me, please please forgive me. I feel like I’m falling back in my chair, like my chair and my body have collapsed through the floor and now I’m weightless, suspended in space. Intravenous heroin is lightning-quick and I don’t know how I’m still conscious. How am I still breathing? But then I open my eyes and see Margit waiting in the shadows, and I realize I’ve already OD’d.





28


She’s hovering in a kind of mist, a woman in white with long black hair parted in the middle. Her dress is speckled with little bits of leaves and dirt. Her face is obscured by the darkness and her head is tilted at an angle, like she can’t hold it up straight. But I’m not frightened anymore. If anything, I’m relieved.

I try to stand up and go to her, but I’m still seated in the chair. My wrists are still bound behind my back.

And then I have a terrifying thought:

Is this my afterlife?

Is this my punishment for the time I’ve spent on earth? An eternity alone in an empty cottage, bound to a hard-backed wooden chair?

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I whisper. “Can you please help me?”

Margit moves closer without actually walking. I’m aware of her scent, that noxious mix of sulphur and ammonia, but it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m so grateful for her presence, the smell is almost comforting. As Margit passes the window, the moonlight illuminates her face and body. And I see that beyond all the scratches and black bruises and broken neck, and all the snags and rips in her dress, she is a shockingly beautiful woman.

“You have to help me, Margit. You’re the only one who can help me. Please.”

She struggles to raise her head—as if she’s trying to listen more carefully—but it just flops back down, like a flower with a broken stem. She rests a hand on my shoulder, but I don’t feel any touch or external pressure. Instead, I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of sorrow and guilt. In my mind I see a place I’ve never actually visited—a field beside a lake, a canvas on an easel, a child on a blanket. I realize I know this place from pictures—from a drawing that Margit left on my porch, and from a stack of Teddy’s artwork that Caroline keeps in the den. I can summon both pictures from memory, the same scene from two different artists.



And as I look upon the woman and child, I can feel Margit’s grief as plainly as my own: I should have been paying more attention. I shouldn’t have been so distracted. If I had just been a little more careful, everything would still be okay. Or maybe it’s my grief, because I also hear Margit saying, you’re not to blame, make peace with the past, forgive yourself. I’m not sure if I’m consoling her or she’s consoling me, I can’t tell where my guilt ends and hers begins. Maybe it’s the kind of grief we will never ever shake, not even after we’re dead.

Then the door opens and Ted turns on the lights.

He sees my tears streaming and his face falls. “Oh, Jesus,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Mallory. Just sit tight.”

I look around for Margit but she’s vanished.

I am still in my cottage.

I am not in some hazy ethereal afterlife, I am still in Spring Brook, New Jersey, bound to a wooden chair with my feet on the floor, and the clock on the microwave oven says 11:52.

I can still feel an icy chill on the crook of my arm, where Caroline injected the needle—but I am very much alive and not the least bit high.

“She drugged me. Your wife—”

“Baby powder,” Ted says. “I switched the heroin with baby powder. You’re fine.” He moves behind me, tugging at the cloth straps binding my wrists to the chair. “Gosh, she really went overboard with these knots. I need a knife.” He goes into the kitchen and starts rummaging through the cutlery drawer.