А Финн - The Woman in the Window

Yes—I’m in. The restore-access process for my phone is simple enough; within sixty seconds, a replacement code pings in my inbox. I enter it onto the phone screen, switch it back to 0214.

Still, what the hell? Maybe the code expired—does that happen? Did I change it? Or was it just fumbling fingers? I chew a nail. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Nor are my motor skills. I eye the wineglass.

A little batch of messages awaits me in my inbox, one a plea from a Nigerian prince, the remainder dispatches from my Agora crew. I spend an hour replying. Mitzi from Manchester recently switched anxiety medications. Kala88 is engaged. And GrannyLizzie, it seems, squired by her sons, managed to take a few steps outside this afternoon. Me too, I think.

Past six, and suddenly fatigue avalanches me, buries me. I slump forward, like a beat-up pillow, and rest my forehead against the desk. I need to sleep. I’ll double-dose on temazepam tonight. And tomorrow I can work on Ethan.

One of my more precocious patients used to begin every session with the words “It’s the strangest thing, but . . .”—and then proceed to describe experiences that were perfectly ordinary. But I feel that way now. It’s the strangest thing. It’s the strangest thing, but what seemed urgent just a moment ago—what’s seemed urgent since Thursday—has shrunk, dwindled, like a flame in the cold. Jane. Ethan. That woman. Even Alistair.

I’m running on fumes. Grape fumes, I hear Ed crack. Ha-ha.

I’ll talk to them, too. Tomorrow. Ed. Livvy.

Monday, November 8

66

“Ed.”

Then a moment later—or maybe an hour:

“Livvy.”

My voice was a puff of breath. I could see it, a little spirit floating before my face, ghostly white in the frozen air.

Somewhere nearby, a chirp, over and over, ceaselessly—a single tone, like the call of a demented bird.

Then it stopped.

My vision swam in a low tide of red. My head throbbed. My ribs ached. My back felt broken. My throat felt seared.

The airbag was crumpled against the side of my face. The dashboard glowed crimson. The windshield sagged toward me, cracked and slack.

I frowned. Some process behind my eyes kept rebooting itself, some system glitch, a buzz in the machine.

I breathed, choked. Heard myself croak with pain. Swiveled my head, felt the top of my skull twist on the ceiling. That was unusual, wasn’t it? And I could taste saliva welling in the roof of my mouth. How was—

The buzz ceased.

We were upside down.

I choked again. My hands flew down, buried themselves in the fabric around my head, as though they could upend the car, push me upright. I heard myself whine, splutter.

Turned my head farther. And saw Ed, facing away from me, still. Blood seeped from his ear.

I said his name, or tried to, one breathy syllable in the chill, a little cloud of smoke. My windpipe was sore. The seat belt had drawn tight around my throat.

I licked my lips. My tongue dipped into a hollow in the upper gum. I’d lost a tooth.

The seat belt was slicing against my waist, wire-taut. With my right hand I pressed the buckle, pressed harder, gasped as it clicked. The belt slithered from my body and I slumped toward the roof.

That chirp. The seat-belt alert, stuttering. Then silent.

Breath fountained from my mouth, red in the dashboard light, as I splayed my hands on the ceiling. Braced them. Pivoted my head.

Olivia was strapped into the backseat, suspended there, her ponytail dangling. I crooked my neck, squared my shoulder against the ceiling, reached for her cheek. My fingers rattled.

Her skin was ice.

My elbow folded; my legs dropped to one side, landed hard on the spider-webbed glass of the sunroof. It crunched beneath me. I scrambled to right myself, knees scuffling, and crawled toward her as my heart knocked against my chest. Seized her shoulders in my hands. Shook.

Screamed.

I thrashed. She thrashed with me, her hair swinging.

“Livvy,” I shouted, my throat flaming, and tasted blood in my mouth, on my lips.

“Livvy,” I called, and tears shot down my cheeks.

“Livvy,” I breathed, and her eyes opened.

My heart failed for an instant.

She looked at me, inside me, mouthed a single word:

“Mommy.”

I jammed my thumb into her seat-belt buckle. The belt released with a hiss, and I cradled her head as she descended, caught her body in my arms, her limbs spilling, jangling against each other like wind chimes. One of her arms felt loose within its sleeve.

I unrolled her along the sunroof. “Shh,” I told her, even though she hadn’t made a sound, even though her eyes were shut again. She looked like a princess.

“Hey.” I shook her shoulder. She looked at me once more. “Hey,” I repeated. I tried to smile. My face felt numb.

I scuttled toward the door, grasped the handle, yanked. Yanked again. Heard the snap of the latch. I pushed against the window, strained my fingers upon the glass. The door swung wide without a sound, gliding into the dark.

I stretched forward and pressed my hands to the ground outside, felt the burning snow against my palms. Dug my elbows in, steadied my knees, and pulled. Dragged my torso out of the car, flopping onto the frost. It squeaked beneath me. I kept dragging. My hips. My thighs. Knees. Shins. Feet. The cuff around my ankle snagged on a coat hook; I hitched it loose, slid free of the car.

And rolled onto my back. My spine went electric with pain. I sucked in air. Winced. My head rolled, as though my neck had quit.

No time. No time. I gathered myself, collected my legs, reassembled them into working order, and knelt by the car. Looked around.

Looked up. My vision wheeled, reeled.

The sky was a bowl of stars and space. The moon loomed planet-huge, solar-bright, and the canyon below blazed with shadow and light, crisp as a woodcut. The snowfall had nearly ceased, just a spray of stray flakes floating through the air. It looked like a new world.

And the sound . . .

Quiet. Utter, final quiet. Not a breath of wind, not a shift of branches. A silent film, a still photograph. I turned on my knees, heard snow crumpling beneath them.

Back to earth. The car was pitched forward, its nose bashed against the ground, its rear seesawed slightly upward. I saw its chassis exposed, like the underside of an insect. I shuddered. My spine twitched.

I dove back through the doorway, hooked my fingers in the down of Olivia’s jacket. And hauled. Hauled her across the sunroof, hauled her past the headrest, hauled her out of the car. Wrapped my arms around her, her little body rag-limp in my arms. Spoke her name. Spoke it again. She opened her eyes.

“Hi,” I said.

Her eyelids fluttered shut.

I laid her beside the car, then tugged her back in case it should capsize. Her head drifted toward her shoulder; I held it—gently, gently—and turned her face toward the sky again.

I paused, my lungs working like a bellows. Looked at my baby, an angel in the snow. Touched her wounded arm. She didn’t react. I touched it again, more firmly, and saw a wince warp her face.

Ed next.

I crawled inside once more before realizing that there was no way to yank him out through the backseat. I reversed, shuffling my shins backward; cleared the car; reached for the front-door handle. Squeezed. Squeezed again. The lock caught, clicked. The door flapped open.

There he was, his skin warm red in the woozy ambulance light of the dashboard. I wondered about that light, how the battery had survived the impact, as I released his seat belt. He slouched toward me, unspooling, like a tugged knot. I gripped him under the armpits.

And dragged him, my head knocking against the gearshift, his body trawling along the ceiling. When we emerged from the car, I saw his face was rinsed in blood.