“Emma!”
She has to get out, out of that filthy apartment above the hardware store, out, away, get to someplace safe. Some safe place. She runs to the door and pulls it open, but he grabs her and drags her back in.
“What are you doing?”
He shakes her, his fingers squeezing her arms, his face on top of hers. She can smell his breath, the hot whiskey smell of his breath, and the powder, the pretty powder. This is expensive shit, you stupid little freak. She isn’t safe here, she’s never been safe here. What is he doing to her?
“Emma! Emma, please. Tell me, tell me… ”
She hadn’t told him, she hadn’t told him-had she? The lamp, the snow, the men who broke down the door, the blood soaking through the little braided rug at the foot of her bed. The powder, the pretty powder. Violet-scented powder, fifteen bucks a fucking tin. She hadn’t told him about that. How does he know? How does he know about the powder?
“Where did you get it? Where did you get it!”
He slaps her face hard. “Emma. Look at me! Look at me!”
His voice is high and frightened. She has him scared now. Good. Why should she be afraid? Why should she? She’s defended herself before.
He slaps her again, and blood rushes to her face and her mind slows down. Slow down, slow down.
“What are you talking about, Emma? What are you saying?”
It’s Charles, Charles, why should she be afraid of Charles?
“Look at me, Emma!”
Sometimes the mind plays tricks on us. Which doctor told her that? Tricky minds. She has a tricky mind. Mommy coming down the hall of the hospital all pretty and bloody, just before dawn. She never could trust her mind. What if she’s losing it? Right now, right here, losing her mind. Is there a place where you can find all the lost minds?
“Emma, listen to me, something’s happening to you. Can you hear me?”
What does he think? He’s shouting in her face. Does he think she’s deaf and crazy?
“I can hear you,” she says, just like a normal person, not shouting, not shouting like him, maybe he’s the crazy one. “I can hear you perfectly.”
He’s sweating. She can see it beading up on his forehead. He reaches up and wipes it off. “You had me scared for a moment.”
“I did?”
This is easy. You open your mouth and words come out. Easy as taking a step.
“I thought I was losing you for a minute there,” he says.
That’s funny, she thought she was losing her, too. “I’m fine,” she says. “I just need to lie down.”
She can talk, she can walk. She walks right past him. Walks right past him and heads toward the bed. One foot in front of the other, easy as can be. Just like that.
And then she collapses.
45
Charles lifts Emma into the armchair. Her skin is the color and texture of chalk and her eyes are red-rimmed, their lids heavy. Her breathing is shallow, a plaintive little sigh accompanies each exhalation. He has to get her to the hospital. Quickly. He wraps his jacket around her and lifts her in his arms. As he carries her down the stairs, he realizes how much weight she’s lost; she’s nothing but skin and bones.
Outside, he hails a cab and gently helps her into it.
“Park Square Hospital,” he tells the driver.
It’s one of the best psychiatric hospitals in the city. And certainly the most discreet. Tucked away on a side street in the East Fifties, the six-story limestone building looks more like an expensive apartment house than a hospital. Several of Charles’s friends have used it as a place to dry out or cool down, and Dan Leber, considered one of the most progressive psychiatrists in the country, is second-in-command. Charles wants Emma to have the best care.
He helps her out of the cab and into the building. The lobby is quiet and clean, and there’s a carpeted lounge with a fireplace. Charles leads Emma into the lounge and sits her down in a deep wing chair. He walks over to the admitting desk and speaks to the calm, concerned nurse. She picks up the phone and speaks quietly.
Moments after she hangs up, Dan Leber appears in the lobby, looking grave and professional. He greets Charles and then leads him to a quiet alcove.
“She’s completely delusional. I’m very worried about her,” Charles says.
“Understandably.”
“I should have brought her in last week.”
“Don’t blame yourself. These things are entirely unpredictable. We’ll admit her immediately, and I’ll get her started on some stabilizing medication.”
Charles sighs heavily. “Christ.”
“Charles, I’m sure your concern means a great deal to her. But the fact is, she’s not your responsibility. I’ll check into state hospitals near her family.”
Emma doesn’t know where she is. The chair and the carpet are soft and cozy. And the music is soothing. Is it the Beatles? Her father loved the Beatles. “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Is she in a safe place? The room has a fireplace with a real fake fire. The colors are pretty. She’s so tired. She lays her head against the back of the chair and pulls Charles’s jacket around her. It’s so soft. What’s in the pocket? Something heavy is weighing it down. Is it a gun? She hopes it’s a gun. She feels it. No, it’s only his keys. Too bad. But won’t he need them? Where is he, anyway? He was just here, with her. He can’t go home; he won’t be able to get in. She has to find him, give him his keys. She lifts them out of the pocket. There’s something else. Some money. And a matchbook. It has writing on it: “Hearty Home Cooking, Terrace Diner, Munsonville, PA.”
That’s funny. She’s from Munsonville and so are the matches. What a small world. She’s even been to the Terrace Diner. Running away, she’d been running away. But she’d had no money and they found her hiding in the bathroom and they called her mother and she got the living shit kicked out of her. She doesn’t like that diner. She doesn’t want these matches. She’ll give them back to him, back to Charles. Running away, I’m running away. But how did he get them? Why are they in his jacket? “Do you think Zack had fish?” The matches, from Munsonville, in his jacket. Pretty powder, pretty powder. The apartment, that apartment that smells like grease and damp and hate. That apartment where her mother lived, her sick sad mother. Running away, I’m running away.
Dan Leber leads Charles back toward the lounge.
“By the way, after the memorial I started rereading Life and Liberty. Extraordinary,” the doctor says.
“Thank you.”
“We’ll do our best for the girl.”
They round a corner and the lounge comes into view. Emma is gone.
Emma is running down the street. She doesn’t know where to go. There is no safe place. The tall buildings are closing in on her, they might fall-don’t look up, don’t look up. She could run to the bus station and get on a bus. But to where, to where? The city is so big, and nobody cares about one crazy little girl all alone. California! She’ll go to California, she’ll find her father, she’ll find him, and everything will be all right. Her father loves her, he loves her. “Teach your children well… and know they love you.” But first she has to get Zack, she has to get her book, it’s her book, not his. It’s in a safe place. She’ll get her book and run away to California and find her father because he loves her and the everything will be all right. Good plan, good girl good girl. Now get your book, get your book and run. Running away, I’m running away.
Emma sits up straight in the back of the cab, like a rich lady. She brushes the hair out of her face. She’s fine. Everything is working out. She has to move quickly, though, she can see that now. She can’t trust him. Only her father. She can trust her father. He probably lives in a little cottage in Santa Cruz. They have a boardwalk there, with a roller coaster and a Ferris wheel. When he sees her he’ll cry. He’ll make her corn bread like he used to when she was a little girl, before she was a dirty monkey. Dirty monkey, dirty monkey. Emma pinches the skin on her wrist as hard as she can, digs her nails in. It helps her to stay calm. When she stops there’s a half-moon of blood. Her blood.