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  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I can’t. My mom’s been, well, things have been getting worse. I have no one to stay with her and I’m not comfortable leaving her alone.”

  “She’s fine, Ian. The doctor even said so. It’s not like she has Alzheimer’s or anything.”

  Ian stifled a sigh. Maybe if she did have Alzheimer’s this whole thing would be easier. “I realize that,” he said.

  “Ian, I’m sorry about what happened to your mother. But you can’t allow it to interfere in every aspect of your life.”

  Of course he couldn’t. Especially when that interference spilled over into her life. Truth be told, leaving his mother alone was not the issue. He just plain didn’t want to see Cindy. Ever.

  Before his mother had gotten sick, or, more correctly, lost her mind, he and Cindy had been dating steadily for about a month. More to the point, they had been having sex for that long. But after his mother had misplaced her sanity, he’d seen a side of Cindy that, up until then, he’d chosen to ignore.

  Whenever she came to the house, Cindy would avoid his mother. Worse than that, she treated his mother like a piece of furniture. Cindy had no tolerance, no caring. She was nothing but a self-centered bitch wrapped up in an extremely sexy package.

  The relationship, if there ever was one, had died for him on that day in his mother’s house, just over two months ago. That first time he’d invited Cindy over since moving there. The first time that having her over didn’t mean stripping her at the door.

  For some reason, he’d allowed the relationship to string along. The sex had been good. A release he’d thought he needed. Now even that didn’t interest him.

  “Ian?” Cindy’s voice broke into Ian’s thoughts. “This party is important. Besides, it’s been almost a week. I’m hungry for you.”

  Amazing how easily she switched gears. From an impatient whine to a tempting seductress in a matter of a few words. He said, “Look Cindy, I’m sorry but I don’t think this is going to work.”

  “Okay, we’ll compromise,” she said brightly. “We can leave the party early.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the party,” he said. “I was talking about us.”

  A deep silence, then, “You are kidding, right?”

  “No. I’m not kidding.”

  “You’re actually willing to give me up in favor of your crazy mother?”

  The nail gun zapped in the background. Birds were singing somewhere off in the distance. Around him the world progressed normally. But Ian felt as if his world had been tilted on its side and he couldn’t seem to grasp solid ground.

  He switched the phone off, ignoring it when the ringing sounded immediately afterward. Maybe his mother’s approach to the world wasn’t so crazy after all.

  ***

  The green shirt didn’t match the blue slacks. Corinne cocked her head as she stared at her reflection in her mirror. No, definitely not. What had she been thinking?

  Now she would have to change. But change what? Her shirt or her slacks?

  She caught herself frowning. Wrinkles. Frowning gave her ugly wrinkles. She’d have to remind herself never to frown in front of people.

  What was she going to do again? She looked at her reflection, as if somehow expecting it to answer. Her attention was drawn to the bottles of nail polish lined up on her dresser. Pretty colors. How long had it been since she’d used them?

  She glanced down at her hands and realized with amazement that her nails were a pale shade of pink. When had she done that? And why couldn’t she remember?

  Dr. Endicott had told her it wasn’t that she couldn’t remember but that she was choosing not to. Ridiculous. Why would she choose not to remember?

  “Sometimes something so awful or so scary happens to us that our mind’s way of defending itself is to suppress the memory.”

  Dr. Endicott had continually repeated this phrase. Or maybe it was just her mind repeating it. He’d gone on to explain to her and Ian that her mind had apparently lost the ability to discern which memories were safe and which were not. The only way to “cure” her would be for her to confront the memory that had triggered the reaction to begin with.

  Corinne shuddered. An image flickered like a dying light bulb in the recess of her mind. Too elusive to grasp. Too intrusive to ignore. Words attached to strange voices skittered just out of reach.

  Her trembling hands flew to her face, rubbing furiously at her eyes. The make-up she had so carefully applied only moments ago now smudged its way across her cheeks. She kept rubbing so that the images couldn’t get any closer. She had to rub them away.

  Corinne began chanting, “Away. Away.” She rocked back on her heels, then stood on her tiptoes. The chant continued, though she was unaware of the words or the sound.

  The phone rang, its high-pitched shrill breaking into Corinne’s ritual chant. She spun around, in search of the noise. Her mind was too far away to comprehend that the ringing was coming from the phone on her bedside table.

  Eventually the answering machine attached to the living room extension picked up the call. The noise stopped. Corinne stood for a moment, confusion settling inside her. She was so very tired. That must be why she’d come into her bedroom. She must need sleep.

  Corinne slipped out of her clothes and pulled on her cotton pajamas. Seconds after climbing under her covers, she slept soundly.

  Chapter 4

  Corinne’s eyes snapped open. Vague remnants of the dream challenged her to remember. Pictures, all out of order, as if a photo album had been dropped and its contents scattered throughout her mind. She shuddered, blinked. Finally the black curtain descended and the pictures faded into the nonexistent.

  Sunlight poured in through the bedroom windows. Had she forgotten to draw the blinds last night? She glanced at the bedside clock. Three o’clock. In the afternoon? Yes, it had to be afternoon. The sun was shining. Had she slept all day?

  Corinne shoved the covers off and climbed out of bed. She reached for her tattered robe, slipping it on as she walked toward the kitchen. Ian was always after her to buy a new robe. But she liked this one. The fact that it was well worn only made it that much more comfortable. Or comforting. Maybe both.

  In the kitchen, she filled her teakettle with water and placed it on the burner. She turned the knob to high, then set about getting her mug and a tea bag from the cabinet.

  This was Corinne’s favorite room. Large windows formed a half-moon around the breakfast nook. French doors opened onto a mahogany deck that Ian had built himself. The back property was lined by woods that led out to a peaceful brook few people knew about. Back here she felt as if the world belonged to her alone.

  As the kettle began to whistle, Corinne switched off the burner and poured the water into her mug. She considered eating something. When was the last time she had done that? Ian kept telling her that she needed to eat more. She should probably try, since it would make him happy. And he deserved that much.

  She placed her mug on the table and slid onto the chair. Birds sang outside the window. She watched them flutter about.

  A flicker of movement in the distance caught her eye. Out by the trees. Her breath caught in her chest. She stared into the woods but saw nothing. Just her imagination.

  She was lifting the mug to her lips when she spotted more movement. This time her eyes found the source. A man. He was standing in the shadows of the trees. Just standing there, staring back at her.

  Corinne’s heart thudded wildly against her chest. The mug slipped from her fingers, smashing against the tile floor. The scream burned in her throat but never found release. She crawled beneath the table. Gathering her knees to her chest, she rocked slowly.

  ***

  Ian pulled his pickup into the garage and punched the button on his remote to close the door. He sat still for a moment, listening to the silence. When he was small, he had loved being in the garage with his father to do what he had referred to as “man jobs”. That had been Ian’s introduction to t
he world of tools. The one good thing his father had done for him before bailing out.

  One cold January evening his parents had had their last fight. His father had walked out. Never looked back.

  Ian had been 10 years old then. His father had carried his suitcase to the door, patting the top of Ian’s head as he walked past, like Ian was the family dog rather than his son.

  Ian shook off the memory as he pushed open the truck door. The first thing he spotted when he stepped into the kitchen was the puddle of brownish liquid on the floor. Then he noticed the ceramic chunks scattered around it, with small pieces floating in the liquid mess.

  He grabbed the roll of paper towels, all the while muttering a bunch of curses. He directed his anger at the mess, though that wasn’t what really upset him. The problem was more the lack of sanity in his life. The feeling that not one second of his time was truly his own anymore.

  It was not until he knelt down to clean up that he spotted her. His mother sat hunched behind one of the table legs. Her eyes had that funny glazed appearance. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t even appear to notice he was there.

  Ian raked his hands through his hair. He thought about his happy place and decided that Dr. Endicott was an idiot.

  As he carefully picked out the chunks of glass, tossing them in the trash can, he wondered about his mother’s bizarre behavior. Prior to three months and two days ago, she’d never shown any sign of mental illness. Sure, she was a bit unconventional. But not crazy.

  One day had changed everything. And he’d give anything to know what had happened on that day.

  The mess now cleaned, he took a deep breath and scooted close to the table. Corinne stirred slightly. Her hands were trembling. She looked in his direction, though her eyes didn’t focus.

  Ian slammed his eyes shut tight. Tears burned behind his lids. He breathed in deep, forcing them back.

  He slowly scooted in closer. He willed his voice to remain calm as he said, “Ma? Why don’t you come with me, ma? Come on out. It’s okay now.”

  Corinne let out a soft sigh. Her eyes remained focused on something in the distance. Something that probably only she could see.

  Ian held out his hand. “Let’s go, ma.”

  Her gaze finally settled on his face. She took his hand, tentatively at first. Then her grasp grew stronger and she slid out toward him.

  “Watching me,” she said.

  Ian led her into the living room. “Who’s watching you, ma?”

  Corinne slumped into her rocking chair, instantly falling into a rhythm. She shook her head. “Watching me. Watching me. You don’t believe me. But I saw. I saw.”

  For the first time, Ian began to wonder if maybe she wasn’t that crazy after all. He knelt down in front of her chair and tried to catch her eye. “What did you see?” he asked.

  Her eyes grew big. Then she rocked harder. She kept shaking her head, back and forth, in the same rhythm that she was rocking in. She wouldn’t look at him. Didn’t chant. Simply rocked.

  Chapter 5

  “So what do you think?” Ian asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Rob replied. He poked at the dirt with the nail he’d been holding. “Understanding the human psyche is far from my specialty, Ian.”

  The two men were crouched on the dirt, picking up debris they had tossed about while working. They’d put the finishing touches on the deck and probably would have been packed up and gone an hour ago. Except Ian had needed to vent. He rarely spoke about his mother. Not because Rob wasn’t a good friend and a good listener. More because Ian needed to draw that line between personal problems and business. Or perhaps he simply needed his business world to be his escape.

  Whatever the case, today he needed advice. Weeks ago he’d tried talking to Dr. Endicott, who had warned him not to indulge his mother’s paranoid fantasies. Yet lately he found himself thinking that maybe there was some shred of truth to her paranoia. After all, something had caused her to retreat into her crazy world.

  “What does her shrink say?” Rob asked.

  Ian stood up and stretched his back. “He says she needs to confront her fears. Face whatever demons she’s repressing. Blah, blah, blah.” He pulled off his tool belt and tossed it beside the pile of tools ready to be packed into the truck. “I pay this guy 125 bucks an hour. He’s been seeing her at least once a week for three months. You’d think there’d be some progress by now.”

  “Maybe you should switch,” Rob said. He threw the scraps of wood into the trashcan. “Find another psychiatrist.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that. But you’ve seen my mother. She doesn’t trust anyone. It took me two months of going to this same doctor to get her calm enough so I could leave her alone in the room with the guy.”

  Ian helped Rob gather the remaining scraps of wood. He shook his head, feeling sick with defeat. “Besides,” he said, “this guy was willing to treat her as an outpatient. I’m really afraid of what’ll happen if I take her to someone else. The others I called at first wanted to commit her.”

  Rob began loading the tools into the truck. Ian followed with the rest of their stuff and they stacked everything into the back. Then Rob leaned against the truck and sighed. “I need a beer.”

  “With a whiskey chaser,” Ian added.

  Rob nodded. “So how would you feel about that?”

  “You want to stop at a bar?”

  “No. I mean about having your mother committed.”

  “Oh.” Birds chirped in the trees beside them. It was one of those perfect New England fall days. Clean cool air that still held a hint of summer. He barely noticed. “You know, when she first got sick… or went crazy… however you want to say it, I resented taking care of her. Hell, I still do. I’m no good at this. But I don’t want her locked in some mental hospital.”

  “Okay, then what are your choices?’

  Ian raked his hand through his hair. Sawdust sprinkled onto his face. “I don’t know. I tried to get her to talk to me, to tell me what she sees. Or who she thinks is watching her. But she won’t tell me. Or can’t tell me. Hell, it’s probably all in her head. But then I think, what if it’s not?”

  Rob reached into the truck, pulled out a crushed pack of Marlboros, and lit one. Something he rarely did now. Not long ago his 13-year-old son had decided that he wanted to be just like dad. So he’d started smoking. That had been enough to make Rob quit.

  He kept a pack in the truck for those rare times when he couldn’t get beyond the urge. The pack he was currently working on was over a month old and was still more than half full.

  Rob smoked slowly, staring off at the glistening deck. This was Rob’s thinking stance. “Okay,” Rob said a moment later. “I’ve got an idea that might be off-the-wall. But, then, your entire situation is nuts, so maybe an unconventional idea is just what you need.”

  Ian smiled. “I like your logic.”

  “Thought you might.”

  “So what’s the idea?”

  “Hire a private detective,” Rob said. “See if he can find out what happened to your mother. Maybe find out where she was that day when she, you know, went over the edge. Who she saw. Also find out if your mother is really being watched.”

  “That actually makes sense.”

  “In a crazy sort of way.”

  “At the very least,” Ian said, “it might calm my mother down to know someone’s looking into it for her. Although her shrink says I shouldn’t indulge her.”

  “Sounds like shrink talk.”

  “Yeah. But he doesn’t live with her.”

  Rob nodded. “You’ve got to go with your gut. Having a fancy degree doesn’t automatically make this guy right.”

  “I know. And I like your idea. At least I’ll feel like I’m doing something. Right now I’m just sitting back watching her deteriorate.”

  Rob dropped his half-smoked cigarette onto the ground and crushed it beneath his boot. He pulled the truck door open. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I’ve got
kids and a wife waiting dinner on me and you’ve got a private investigator to hire.”

  ***

  “We still got nothing.” Nico spat the words out as if they had a foul taste. “Almost four months later and not a damn thing.”

  Skeets shifted his weight from one leg to the other. His gaze remained on the oil stain by his feet. He didn’t need to see Nico’s eyes to know they burned with anger. “She was our best lead,” Skeets muttered.

  “And the two of you managed to fuck that up without much effort,” Nico snapped.

  “We had no way of knowing she’d go crazy.” Skeets stuffed his hands in his pockets, yanked them out, swiped them through his unruly blond hair. Defending his actions was useless. Still he said, “Hell, no one could’ve predicted -”

  “So what’ve you done since then?” Nico said. “Anything? Have you found one little piece of information?”

  Someone in the next bay shouted to someone else to help him out. A wrench clattered to the floor. Skeets continued to stare down at the concrete. He gave the answer, even though it wasn’t necessary. “No, not a thing.”

  “You need to find me a lead. Soon.”

  “The crazy lady ain’t remembering nothing.”

  “What about the son?”

  “He don’t know nothing.”

  Nico’s eyes bore into Skeets. His voice was low and menacing. “Don’t be a stupid shit.”

  “We checked, Nico. Ain’t nothing there.”

  “Yeah, well watch the motherfucker anyway.”

  “Right.” Skeets finally looked up. His eyes briefly met Nico’s, then skittered away. “We’ll work some other angles.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you do or how you do it,” Nico said. “Just get it done.”

  Skeets nodded, felt the dark eyes boring into him but didn’t meet them directly. Someone laughed and the sound echoed almost obscenely. Skeets refrained from fidgeting, stuck his hands back in his pockets. He said nothing. At this point, it was probably safer that way.