SICK: Psychological Thriller Series Novella 1 (7 page)

The garage was open, which meant Peter was inside. I crept in. I don’t know why I crept; I could’ve walked like a normal person. The garage was dark and cold, like a cave, and coated in black grime that smelled of grease and decades of spilled motor oil. The old man was at a table in the back, prying open a can of stain.

“Did you find your hammer, Peter?” I asked.

He jumped and turned around with a white face. He hadn’t heard me come in. “Mrs. Branch? No ma’am.”

“It’s gone,” I said. “Who am I supposed to believe took it. Greta?”

He squinted in the dim light. “I never touched any of your things.”

“You didn’t take the hammer and leave this behind?” I held up the bottle of antifreeze.

“No,” he said, scratching his chin. “I haven’t been inside your house since …” he rubbed his head as he looked at the bottle.

“This is yours, right?” I shoved it in front of his face.

“Why, yes,” he said. “I bought it. I was going to put in that old car of yours. Lord knows you don’t have time to worry about it, and you don’t have a man around to take care of that kind of thing for you.”

“You bought it for me?” I was annoyed at his sideways insult to John, but surprised that he’d thought of me.

“It’d be a shame to destroy a perfectly good car,” he said. “But I bought that months ago. Been so long, I forgot about the idea entirely. Where did you find it?”

“Under the bed,” I said. “You’re sure haven’t been in the house? Maybe you forgot.”

His jaw worked in confusion, and a shaky breath escaped his open mouth.
The man should be in a nursing home
, I thought.
Not piddling around here
. No wife, no children, all he had was this job. I pitied him, but I had to end this game. “Peter, maybe you should give me your key so there’s no chance.”

“No chance of what?” he asked.

“Of any confusion,” I said.

“I’m not confused. I never went upstairs, and I’ve had the keys to every door and gate on this property for fifty-two years. You’re going to take them away now?”

“Just the key to the servants’ house.”

He grumbled as he pulled his key ring from his pocket. I watched him struggle with trembling fingers.

“Let me do it,” I said.

“No! I got it! I got it.” He finally loosened the key from the ring and slapped it into my hand. “There. You happy now? Can’t blame Old Pete on nothing else. And you can kill the damn vermin yourself.” He set the bottle of coolant on a shelf full of rusted paint cans, and kept his back turned to me until I walked out.

It hadn’t been a pleasant exchange, but it had to be done. He slipped when he mentioned killing vermin. That meant he had been in the house, and whether he was lying about it or had forgotten, his snooping would be put to an end once and for all now.

I had to get back to the hospital. I rushed to the car, but the massive front door of the mother house swung open.

“Mrs. Branch!” The Arab woman stumbled into my path before I could avoid her. Her clear, black eyes and glossy hair, the fineness of her clothing, made me feel that much more ragged and tired. “I saw the ambulance,” she said. “Greta told me what happened. Is Mr. Branch okay?”

“He’s in the ICU,” I said, “but the doctor says he’s going to make it.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” she said. “But I came out to talk to you about something else.”

“I’m sorry about the rent,” I said. “I’ll go back to work as soon as possible.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s your husband.” She folded her arms over her chest, her jaw tight. “I saw him. He was stumbling around out back the other day.”

“Impossible,” I said. “He never walks around anywhere. He’s too delicate.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“Exactly what?” I said.

“If he falls, you could sue us.”

I was outraged by her insinuation. “Mrs. …”

“Abd-el-gawwad” she said impatiently.

“Mrs, Abdelgawwad, we are not that kind of people.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We extend our hospitality toward you because of our faith, but I must draw the line somewhere. I don’t want him wandering around unaccompanied. He is a liability.”

“I’m very sorry,” I said. “But he never goes outside. You must be mistaken.”

“He is the only tall, pale man in pajamas on this property, Mrs. Branch. I assure you, I was not mistaken.” She cleared her throat. “He also appeared to be intoxicated. It’s a bad example for the children. Thank you for respecting our wishes.” With that, she turned and strode back toward the mother house, her high-heeled boots decidedly crushing the gravel, her black shining curls bouncing with conviction.

John? Walking around? I was baffled, but then I remembered the night I found him downstairs after he finished the Demerol. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that John, high and feeling no pain, had also wandered into the garden.

*

The test results came back inconclusive, but John’s condition improved, and that was all that mattered. Soon he was eating liquid foods and chatting as if nothing had happened.

He insisted I stay with him in the hospital, and for the next week, I slept poorly in a vinyl recliner next to his bed while he snored in his pharmaceutical stupor. Reruns of crime shows droned in the background, and the nurses woke us several times a night to take his vitals. I’d wash up in the bathroom and eat a breakfast of mini Nestle Crunch bars and coffee. I lived in a perpetual state of exhaustion and malnutrition.

But it was worth the discomfort. John recovered quickly under the hospital’s constant care. The bruises faded using a new medication. His organs were almost functioning normally, and he became more animated than I had seen him since his last hospital stay. His eyes and skin gained back a human color, and he seemed very content to watch daytime soaps as we waited for the final batch of test results. He wiggled his feet under the covers and sipped his strawberry-flavored nutrition shakes from the bendy straw like a good little boy. He was the favorite of the floor, like a celebrity. He joked with the doctors and nurses. He knew all their names and about their kids.

I was the quiet, bedraggled wife in the background, barely hanging onto her wits. I was tormented by my thoughts. I forced myself to bury the memory of the morning John yelled at me. That wasn’t real, I told myself. It had been the beginnings of his organ failure. We didn’t know it at the time, but John was on his way to being deathly ill. He was in a foul mood because toxins were building up in his blood.

I also struggled to dismiss how I felt during the ambulance ride when, as John gagged and writhed, I wished he would die. I reasoned that I had been stressed and overtired. Yes, that was all. Seeing him unconscious and convulsing was too much for me to handle. I would never want him to die, even if he was suffering. Suffering was a part of life. We had to endure it. It was God’s will. John and I had to go on.

So I never brought up the big shot again. Suicide was not an option, and I was sure he forgot the idea. He didn’t behave like a man who had given up. He was alive again and looked as cheerful as ever. John was a survivor, and despite his horrible, unending medical problems, he gripped to life; he enjoyed it still. That steady, beating heart was back on its usual determined journey. To where? I didn’t know. I imagined one day it would stop in a place and say, “Okay, I’m done now.” But that day was not today. Our lives would go back to normal, and maybe even improve.

*

By the end of the week, John was all smiles. He was eating his breakfast while we waited for the last word from Dr. Sheffield. When we had a quiet moment, I leaned toward him. “John, I didn’t want to alarm you, but I need to talk to you about Peter.”

“That old geezer?” He laughed.

“Remember that time we found him in our bedroom?” I asked.

“He’s harmless.”

“You know how he’s always asking about his missing things?” I said. “Well, I’ve been finding them in the house.”

John’s face grew serious. “What sort of things?”

“First was a hammer,” I said, “under the bed.”

“A hammer?” He paused, musing. “How odd.”

“Then I found a gallon of antifreeze.”

“Antifreeze? For a vehicle?” he said with an exaggerated expression of disbelief.

“Yes!”

“Since when have you begun tidying up under the bed, Suze?” He chuckled and turned his attention back to the TV.

“Does he have a history of this? Maybe he even comes in while I’m at work,” I said.

“That’s just silly. You’re being paranoid.”

“You have been doing a lot of Demerol,” I said.

“I would notice someone walking around in my room,” he said.

“Well, their won’t be anymore problems. I took his key away.”

“You did?” He thought on that a minute. “But what if those things were already there and you just forgot.”

“Antifreeze? Really?”

“Hmm. Okay, I guess you’re right.”

“He seemed very upset about it. I felt like a bully for accusing him, but it’s obvious he’s losing it.”

“You did the right thing, sweetie,” John said. “Pete’s always been a little slow, and those Alzheimer’s people can become violent. Ever the more reason I am so grateful to have you, protecting me like a mother hen.” He laughed. The lights from the TV glittered against his eyes. He took my hand and squeezed it, flashing his most darling smile, stilling my world, with that impish glint of his.

*

John
seemed disappointed when it was time to be released. He was concerned that he wasn’t well enough, but Dr. Sheffield insisted that there was no need to stay at the hospital any longer. The same paramedics, like our regular chauffeurs, took us both home again. There was a comfort in the familiarity of the routine. We were jostled by the stiff suspension of the ambulance, and John smiled at me wordlessly as I held his hand the whole way home like always.

“You’re such an angel, Suze. My dream come true.”

The calamity was over, and we were back to the coziness of our dingy house and soiled sheets. The two men carried John back up the creaking stairs and deposited him on the bed. They were like our bellboys. I felt like I should start tipping them. They closed the door on their way out, and I was sealed back into my life with John.

“Suze?”

“Coming!”

*

Within a few weeks, John had improved considerably. He was no longer confined to the bedroom and now ate with me downstairs. The morning was bright and muggy, and he sat at the table waiting for his cereal. His hands were folded in front of him. Old cartoons played on the kitchen TV set. As he laughed, I glanced at his eyes. They were clear and bright. His voice was strong. I had not seen him this healthy in years. Maybe it was progressive liver failure that had been bothering him all along, and Dr. Sheffield had finally found the answer to John’s medical enigmas. I was afraid to hope for too much; I couldn’t bear to be disappointed again, but I had to believe that miracles were possible.

“John, I can’t stay home with you anymore. Not one more day.” I said.

“Have you spoken to your boss?” he asked.

“I’m just going to go in,” I said.

“Yes, you must go,” he said. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”

I was struck by the fact that he didn’t object to me going to work. I believed it was added evidence that he was entering a new level of wellness. I was much more comfortable leaving him this time. Since there had been no surgery involved, there was no wound care or immobilization required. He was free of any casts or braces and could move around the house freely. Then I remembered my row with the landlord.

“Mrs. Arab said she saw you walking around out back,” I said. “It was shortly after your neck surgery. Did you happen to go outside?”

“What?” John turned his boyish face to me.

“I told her she was wrong, but she insisted it was you.”

His smile faltered; his brows knit together ever so slightly. It was just a flicker of expression, but his deceit was there, along with a slight catch in his breath. Then the charming smile returned.  “It couldn’t have been me, sweetie. You know I rarely leave the bedroom, much less the house.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. This time I got him. I caught him in a lie.

He looked down as he fingered his napkin. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m sure if I, myself, walk outside.”

“That day you finished the Demerol. The day I came home from work and you were covered in new bruises …”

“No,” he cut me off. “Impossible.”

“You were overly intoxicated, John. You know better than to go outside alone. You just broke your neck on the stairs. You could easily fall after injecting so much Demerol.”

“It wasn’t that much,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“I just can’t believe how careless you were! If you get hurt, who’s the one who has to take care of you? It’s selfish. Absolutely selfish.”