Anna Quinn - The Night Child

“Nora?”

She opens her eyes. When had she closed them? Here are his dark eyes, sad as the winter sky. None of this is his fault.

“Paul, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I know you wouldn’t hurt Fiona.” She exhales deeply. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t. God, of course I wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Time’s up,” Carol says.

“Did you ever love me?” he says.

She says nothing. She thinks again, about the night with the candlelight. How afterward they’d gone into his bed. He’d read a poem to her, one he’d written himself, holding the loose paper in his hands, vulnerable, intimate. But vaguely, she’d known her body didn’t hold the passion it should have, that she hadn’t wanted to melt into his bones, hadn’t wanted the lights on, had wanted it dark. She’d drifted into some other space in her mind, when he’d pressed then pushed into her, that she’d been grateful when he’d finally rolled off her body. And how, despite the fact she’d lost concentration and he’d fallen asleep without saying anything, she’d felt content to lie there with him, body touching body. Content enough to marry him. Relieved she would no longer be alone.

The old man by the window stands and pulls the blinds open. An enormous shaft of light beams into the room, and the old woman claps her hands and laughs. The old man laughs too.

“Nora, do you—did you love me?”

“I-I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve been really messed up. Sorry, I don’t know. In the beginning, I thought so, and then—I don’t know.”

“I know you’ve been through a lot,” he says, casting a glance at Carol, who is watching closely. His voice softens. “Jesus. I’m really sorry about all of it, really I am. But … I think … I need to … I need to … to leave us .”

“Elisa,” she says, looking at her hands.

He is quiet for several moments. “Yes.”

“You’ve taken off your ring,” she says.

“Yes. And yours?”

“They took it.” She lifts a shoulder toward Carol. “For now. They took my shoelaces too.” Now she is crying. Fifteen years of marriage. Over. Done. No more.

He leans over, hugs her hard.

“I’m okay,” she whispers into his ear. “I’m okay.”

“Don’t rush this. Please. Don’t rush coming home,” he says, handing her a Kleenex from a box on the end table and taking one for himself.

“But Fiona …”

“You’ll see her tomorrow, right? James too?”

She wipes her eyes. “Yes.”

He stands, kisses the top of her head, and like that, they are no longer together.

“Mommy!” Her daughter races toward her. Nora kneels, wraps up Fiona, pulls her close, smells the love and light and strength of her. Fiona whispers into her ear. “I missed you so much! Are you okay? When are you coming home?”

“Soon, honey. Very soon.” She stands to hug James, Fiona latched onto her leg. He looks terrible. Bloodshot eyes, the lines in his forehead deepened.

“Nice digs,” he says, gazing around the visitor’s room, gingerly returning her hug. “The ribs doing better?”

“Yes, yes, better.”

A teenage girl wrapped in a crocheted throw comes in then, and for a moment, Nora thinks it is Elizabeth, but of course, it is not. The girl has short purple hair and pale white skin. Multiple eyebrow piercings over her left eye. She glances at them and trudges to the snack table. She pours coffee into a Styrofoam cup, rips open a yellow packet of sweetener, and lets it snow slowly into the coffee, then walks to one of the five vinyl-covered loungers in front of the TV and slumps there, stares at it without turning it on.

“Who’s that, Mommy?”

“I don’t know.” It disturbs Nora then to realize that in all this time, she hasn’t spoken to any of the patients. For twelve days she hasn’t done anything but work with “the team,” sit and stare out the window and manage the delicate space between thinking too much and not at all, walk the halls to keep her blood flowing, eat (Carol sitting there every few hours, insisting she swallow something, threatening an IV if she doesn’t), vomit, pee, sleep, take an occasional shower (the shower only because Carol puts her in, waits outside while Nora cries inside) … except for today.

Today in the shower, Nora’s body wet, the sensation of water, the sound and clean of it sinking into her skin, rippling over her breasts, a reuniting of her face with her arms, chest, legs and feet, skin and bones. It might as well have been the entire sea washing over her, her sense of self that real.

Fiona’s voice brings her back. “Oh! Look! Can I draw something?” At the far end of the room an easel stands holding a giant sketch pad.

“Of course, but give me one more big hug!”

Fiona hugs Nora hard, says, “I love you so much, Mommy!” and then runs to the easel. Nora and James sit down in restrained emotion and watch as Fiona chooses a yellow crayon and draws a huge flower. Next, Fiona replaces the yellow crayon with a green one and draws a stem for the flower.

“Paul says she’s okay.”

“She is—but God, she really misses you.”

Nora keeps her eyes on her daughter. “I miss her too. More than anyone can know.” Above her, from the speakers, Garth Brooks drawls out “Friends in Low Places.”

“Your psychiatrist suggested we not say too much to her for now, said you would talk with her once you’re home, said the most important thing is she knows she’s not to blame.”

She turns to him, tries to ignore the music. Seriously. Who would play that in a psych ward? “Thank you for being here with her. I know it’s a lot to be away from Stephen—”

“Stephen’s fine,” he says, takes her hands in his. “But I’m so … so … outraged about Dad—I … I can’t—” he chokes on his words, hands clench, practically crush their bones into fists.

“James.”

“Damn him,” he whispers, each word convulsing. “Damn the son of a bitch. Nora, he hired an investigator to find us! He’s known where we lived for months and he never said a word! Only sent that damn Christmas box. Jesus. And then when I told him what you remembered—”

His words slam hard as an iron pipe. Things are going wrong. “You told him?” She goes white and yanks her hands from his. “Oh, my God! You shouldn’t have done that! What if … what if he comes after me? What—”

“Nora! Stop! Please! He is a frail, old man with dementia. He’s in a nursing home with locked doors. Half the time I visit he doesn’t even know me. He can barely leave his chair. He’s not going anywhere. And even if he could, none of us would let him anywhere near you. God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

She twists her body away from him and turns to Fiona who is drawing a purple bird next to the yellow flower. She inhales and exhales and her hands drop onto her lap, the fingers lace tightly together. Without moving her head, she says, “What did he say? When you told him, what did he say?”

James is silent. She braces herself. At last he says, “He denied it. The bastard denied it all.”

She feels a fist of anger in her chest, but still, she is okay. She’s not going to let him ruin her life anymore. She’s not. She can’t. She wants to get out of here. She turns to James. “And you?”

“Nora, I believe you,” he says, his eyes welling. “I believe you.”

She is unprepared for the force of this sentence. A wall breaks apart inside her.

“Thank you,” she says.

“And I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you more. I’m really sorry. I just didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?” he says.