David Vann - Caribou Island

Jim gave you a prescription for a sleeping pill, too, Rhoda said. Dad said you couldn’t sleep last night.

She can’t sleep, Gary said. She has to be able to sleep.

Irene tried the pasta. Her appetite gone. She didn’t care whether she ever ate again. Closed her eyes and could feel every part of her pulling inward, as if her center were gravity itself. A rushing of flesh into nothing.

What’s wrong, Mom?

The medication. I can’t eat.

Mom, Rhoda said, and she came closer, took Irene’s arm. But Gary stayed where he was. He had never known how to care for her, and now would be no different. Irene would be on her own, as she had been her whole life.

My mother had terrible headaches, Irene said.

Rhoda and Gary both paying attention now.

She said her head hurt, but I didn’t know what that was. She would ask me to be silent, and I did that. I was silent. I didn’t make a sound for days. I was only a kid, so that wasn’t easy.

Rhoda and Gary silent now, and Irene closed her eyes. She wanted to see her mother’s face. But what she saw was what she always saw, her mother’s form hanging in the air, a shape that couldn’t be her mother, and she didn’t want to see that, so she opened her eyes again.

Rhoda drove away afraid but couldn’t pinpoint the fear. Everyone around her acting odd. Her mother, her father, Jim. None of them being who they were supposed to be. And where did that leave her? Her life was based on them.

What about what she wanted? Did any of them give a shit about that? This pissed her off, which was better than being afraid. She yanked the wheel to the side, then yanked the other way, fishtailing her crappy car down the gravel road, and that felt a little better. Go, cockroach, go, she said.

She took the turnoff to the lower end of the lake and skidded up to Mark’s house.

Hey, fucker, she said when he came to the door. It was late and he looked tired, or stoned.

That’s nice.

Not one visit, she said. You couldn’t stop by just once to see how she’s doing?

How’s she doing?

She died.

Well I guess we’re better off, in a way, Mark said. The weight of her displeasure and all that. But I will miss the Christmas cakes, and a certain girlish hopefulness.

Rhoda kicked him in the shin with her boot, hard enough he fell down howling. Then she ran back to her car before Karen could get into the mix.

Pancakes and canned peaches when she arrived home, so at least that was a return to normal. Jim standing at the counter, clicking his fork against the side of the can as he went for a slice of peach.

I’m putting you on notice, she said.

What?

You’re all acting weird.

All?

You and my mom and dad. You’re all freaks. My brother’s just a worthless shit, but the three of you are driving me crazy.

What did I do?

I don’t know, she said. But it’s not right. You’d better stop.

Jim looked hurt. I’ve been making calls for your mother, he said. That’s all I’ve been doing.

I’m sorry, Rhoda said. She stood in place a moment to try to slow down. She felt like she was running, her heart pumping. She wanted Jim to put his arms around her to help hold her in place, but he just stood there oblivious. Something freaked me out about my mom, she finally said.

What was it?

Rhoda threw her jacket off, sat on one of the bar stools. It’ll sound crazy, she said. But she can’t sleep, she can’t eat, she has this pain all the time, and so she’s leaving us. She’s going away somewhere in her head, back to her childhood, to her mother, and I feel like she’s already gone.

Could be just the medications.

Could be. But it isn’t. She’s going back to a place that’s not good for her.

Well I found her a good doctor. John Romano, the best ear nose throat guy in Alaska.

In Anchorage?

Yep. One p.m. tomorrow.

How expensive is he?

He’s the most expensive, but he’s also the best and he’s willing to cut his fees in half for your mom. Everything will be half price, even if she ends up needing surgery.

Surgery?

Yeah, a sinus operation. It’s pretty common.

Rhoda got up and gave Jim a hug. Thanks, Jim, she said. And sorry for snapping at you. I’m just afraid. Jim put his arms around her, and he put one hand on the back of her neck, the way she liked. She felt safe.

How old was she when her mother killed herself? Jim asked.

Ten. In Rossland, British Columbia. She came home from school one day and walked in and found her. But she never talks about it. A couple weeks ago, she told me what it was like, walking up to the house that day. First time she’s ever told me that. How there was snow on the ground, and how the paint looked. Something’s going on with her, even before these headaches. She’s getting all paranoid and weird, thinks my dad is going to leave her.

He’s leaving her?

No. She’s just weirding out.

Hm, Jim said.

Let’s not talk about this anymore, Rhoda said. Let’s talk about something fun. Let’s talk about what kind of wedding we’d like.

Okay, Jim said, and he let his arms fall, gave her a light pat on the back.

So Rhoda grabbed the brochures for hotels on Kauai and they sat together on the couch.

This is the one I like, she said, opening a full-size brochure of sea views and green-black mountains with waterfalls. Princeville, at Hanalei Bay. Listen to this. Forever Starts Here. As the sun kisses the horizon and you are bathed in golden light, your vows are lifted by eternal trade winds and scattered over a million miles of Pacific.

Doesn’t sound bad, Jim said.

It wouldn’t suck, Rhoda said. Eternity and all that. Look at that pool. Infinity, to go with eternity.

The rooms look nice, too. Pricey?

Rhoda put down the brochure and looked at Jim. The price doesn’t matter, does it? This is our wedding. It only happens once.

Yeah, Jim said. I guess so.

Rhoda elbowed him in the ribs, but only softly, and she opened the brochure again. What about our dance? she asked. We may have to go to Anchorage to take lessons. I don’t think there’s anything here.

Anchorage?

I just want something classy, she said. She didn’t like his responses. Maybe we should talk about this another time.

I’m sorry, he said.

That’s fine.

I’m just new at this.

It’s fine. We’re not even engaged yet. I just like to think about it.

Jim didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that. Rhoda looking down at the brochure, sad, and he felt like he was supposed to pop the question right then, to save the moment, but he didn’t have a ring. And there was Monique. The situation was impossible. So he didn’t say anything. He looked at the brochure, and she turned slowly through the pages, neither of them looking at each other.

Carl had run out of money. Not even ten dollars left. He had to leave the campground, so he sat in his tent stuffing his cheap wet sleeping bag into its sack, then wondered what to do with Monique’s. Hers was new, silver and green, in a waterproof bivi sack. Much thicker and warmer than his, but also weighed less. An easier ride through life. Carl lay down on her bag, put his face on the built-in pillow, breathed in deep. And then he was crying out of control again. He didn’t know how to make it stop. Ragged and painful, not a good kind of crying, no relief. And she had never even been nice to him. He didn’t understand this.

He took off his jeans, got into her bag, zipped it tight, and curled up. Another wave of sobbing, his heart this awful lump. He wondered how long this would go on. He wanted her to come back. He wanted her to lie down on top of him, to hold him down. Monique, he said.