The Evening Spider (5 page)

Haverton, Connecticut

December 7, 2014

My Google search had brought me here. Didn't I know better than to type symptoms into Google and expect to be reassured? And yet—I hadn't been able to help myself. When I had changed Lucy for bed, I found a small pink-purple discoloration by her elbow.

I stared at the phrase “that you can't account for.” Did we fall into that category? Or had I, on that night she got the other bruise, gripped her so tightly on the arm that I'd made a mark there, too?

Bruises that you can't account for.

I closed my computer as I heard Chad coming down the hall. He'd been resettling Lucy, who'd awoken just as we'd started to undress for bed.

“She just needed her pacifier,” Chad said, climbing into bed. “She'd dropped it.”

“Oh,” I said, pushing my laptop away and giving him a grateful squeeze on the arm. “Thanks.”

“Abby?”

“Yeah?”

“Where's the iPod and player I set up for Lucy?”

“I took them out of her room.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Umm . . . Why?” Chad's tone had the slightest hint of annoyance.

“I decided we shouldn't have her listening to those water sounds all night. I mean, it was okay when she was a newborn. But what, is she going to have to listen to a babbling brook in order to fall asleep every night for the rest of her life? Do we really want to set her up for that?”

“Oh.” Chad considered this gravely. This was officially a
parenting decision.

“You disagree?” I said, intentionally adding a trace of indignation to my own voice. As the parent who did only about fifteen percent of the napping and nighttime duties, did he really have a case?

“No. I was just curious. What about all of those lullaby albums we put on there?”

“I never use those. Do you?”

“No.”

“So we have an extra iPod now,” I added cheerfully. “I was thinking I should start listening to audiobooks or something.”

I had no intention of doing any such thing. But it had an air of “Mommy's treating herself,” to which Chad would find it difficult to object. More importantly, it sounded more level-headed than
I'm sick of the phantom shushing sounds in the dark.

“Sure,” Chad said. “Okay. That sounds good.”

Chad nestled closer to me and put his face against mine. As he leaned into me for a kiss, his heft annoyed me vaguely. It had for months now. My brain had recently undergone a subtle semantic shift with regard to Chad's physical presence. I used to think of him as
manly.
Now I thought of him as
burly. Burly
wasn't offensive, but it still felt like an entirely different thing somehow.

“Maybe I'll listen to
All the Presidents' Men,
” I said. “I've always wanted to read that. Do you think it would be hard to get an audio version?”

I honestly thought this quandary would distract him long enough for me to think of a polite way to decline. I wasn't feeling flirtatious in the least.

“I don't know,” Chad murmured before kissing my neck.

“Chad?” I pulled away slightly.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever wonder about the people who lived in this house before us?”

Chad crossed his arms and scratched his shoulders absently.

“What do you mean? That Janelle lady who sold it to us?”

“I mean before her. Do you ever wonder about all the people
who slept in this room before us? Or slept in Lucy's room? I mean, a house this old . . .”

We knew from the deed that it was built in 1867.

“I thought that was what you loved most about it,” Chad said. “Its . . . classical appeal.”

Had it been?
Antique charm
was how the real estate agent had put it.

“Sure. But 1867. People did things pretty differently then. Probably babies were born here. Probably . . .” I hesitated. “Probably some people died here.”

Chad considered this. “Probably. Yeah.”

“Don't you ever want to know a little more, then?”

Chad leaned in for another kiss. “I don't think so. Sometimes it's better not to know details. Maybe that's just me.”

I was slightly annoyed with him for putting off this conversation so decisively. But after so many months, I felt I owed him something.

“Maybe,” I said, and returned his kiss.

I felt myself gasp, then sat up.

“NO!” I heard myself shout.

I stared into the blackness of our bedroom, focusing on the tiny green light that indicated that the baby monitor was on. I strained to hear a sound but heard nothing.

I waited for my pulse to slow down, and it did, steadily, for about a minute. Chad didn't stir. I tried to remember what had wakened me. Was it something from the monitor, something from Lucy's room?

No, I determined. It was not. It was a dream. And in the dream, Lucy had been at the bottom of the stairwell while I
was on a middle step. Lucy was screaming. Clearly I'd tripped and dropped her on my way down. As I rushed down the final steps to pick her up, I saw that her face was not hers. The face was familiar to me, but it wasn't Lucy's.

I stared into the little green monitor light now, terrified that I'd hear a
shhhhh.

But all was quiet in Lucy's room. So quiet. I missed the gentle, reassuring gurgle of her babbling brook track. I lay down on my back, caught my breath, and tried to remember where I'd seen that face before.

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 20, 1885

T
he injuries from the birth were significant. I suppose you needn't know those details, but I could not stand and walk for some weeks. I nursed the baby but Clara did everything else—until I recovered.

The evening spider made its visit some time later—when Martha was almost five months old.

I
know
Matthew saw that spider. I know it was not a product of my diseased imagination. You know the night to which I am referring, don't you? The night that Martha had her fall? I understand that it was much discussed out of my presence in the weeks and months that followed. You needn't pretend that wasn't the case.

While I was physically recovered, I still allowed Clara—when she was about—and Tessa to take on more of the maternal responsibilities than was necessary or perhaps appropriate.

It felt so much easier to take on the simpler duties—the peeling of potatoes or the washing of clothes. Care of the baby, by contrast, seemed to require so many decisions—significant ones. Such a tiny and incommunicative creature—I didn't trust
myself to know
always
when she was hungry, when her aches and cries were typical, and when they required more serious attention or medical advice. It seemed best to let those judgments fall occasionally upon others—not solely on the abilities of my meek and recovering mind. The child's chances seemed better that way. Any child's chances would be better that way, would they not?

On the night of the terrible incident, however, Martha was in my care alone. Unless one counts Matthew, and I don't think one should. He was downstairs, reading his newspaper. He never played any part in Martha's bedtime.

I was feeling fatigued that evening—more than usual. All day Martha had had some sort of stomach complaint, and nothing seemed to soothe her. After a simple supper, I retired to our bedroom with her. Under normal circumstances I would have nursed her and then laid her down in her cradle. I was so tired, though, and she was so unsettled, that I nursed her on our bed. She fell asleep more promptly than I expected, but I was not in a rush to get her into her cradle. I waited some minutes, dozing and daydreaming and waiting for her to fall into a deeper sleep, so my transporting her wouldn't rouse her. As I lay there, I saw a small but thick-legged spider crawling across the ceiling, just above us.

In general, I am quite fond of spiders. I admire their industry—and at times their efficient savagery. Yet I do not wish to share a bed with one. I had a vision of the spider falling into my hair—or onto Martha's bald head—at night. I also took a notion to seeing the creature up close. I believe you know this about me—and knew it even then—that when I'm fatigued or nervous, I find my brain focuses more easily on small
things. In that moment, the spider seemed like a small gift from Providence—like finding a flower on a gloomy day, or coming across an old letter from a loved one at a moment when its kind words are most needed. (I have never received any letters here, by the way, Harry. But I still know the feeling of needing—or hoping for—small mercies.)

I picked up Matthew's Bible and stood very gingerly on the edge of the bed, careful not to step near Martha. Using the Bible, I plucked the spider more easily from the ceiling than I'd anticipated. Perhaps the creature knew my intentions were benevolent? Surprised, I jumped off the bed rather hastily, and rushed my tiny passenger to the window. Thinking about it later, I believe it was my haste that jostled little Martha's position on the bed. At the time, though, I was eager to get the creature to the window. I pulled at the window but had great difficulty opening it with one hand. I paused to watch the spider, as it had stopped moving. It looked stunned. I wondered if it was watching me, if it trusted me—if it
should
trust me. Its legs moved slightly, then stopped, as if it was contemplating bolting, then decided against it.

In that moment I heard the terrible thump, and then the screams. Martha had rolled off the bed. I cried out and flung the Bible to the floor. When I rushed to her, there was already blood streaming from a gash by her eyebrow. She had apparently hit her poor little face on the bedside table on her way down.

As I applied my sleeve to it, I saw the spider crawl across my palm and onto Martha's nightdress. I shouted and swiped it away just as Matthew appeared in the doorframe.

“What was that dreadful noise! My God, Frances! She's bleeding!”

“There was a spider!” I screamed, wiping Martha's face frantically. “A spider!”

“And you dropped Martha?” Matthew demanded.

“No. She tumbled off the bed.”

“Tumbled off the bed! How is that possible? Give her to me.” Matthew took the baby from my arms.

The child continued to scream, and the sound of it threatened to break my heart in two. I reached for her, but Matthew pulled away.

“I must take her to Dr. Graham at once. This wound almost certainly needs stitching, and he should examine her.”

“I will get dressed.”

“No. Stay here. Try to sleep.”

“Please let me hold her. It's just the short walk down the road.”

“You obviously need some rest, Frances.”

I followed him to the front door, begging and sobbing. He handed Martha back to me briefly while he put on his coat and shoes but then snatched her back.

“Please let me go with you!” I cried as he opened the front door. “Or else send for Dr. Graham, rather than taking the poor baby out like this.”

As soon as I said it I wondered why he had not suggested this earlier.

“You are not well enough to accompany me,” he said, pressing his handkerchief to Martha's head. “Try to get some rest.”

I cried until Matthew returned. I knew that he had gone to Dr. Graham's home—rather than sending for him—because he did not wish for the doctor to see me in my fragile state. I cried not only for
this incident but for the last. Matthew was right to be concerned about Dr. Graham.

Dr. Graham was the only one who knew of the goblet incident—the time I'd dropped a goblet when I was with child, and the pieces had cut Matthew's leg. Dr. Graham had surely understood that that had been an accident, but what might he think now? How many accidents can one sound-minded woman have?

Matthew returned after an hour and tucked Martha into her cradle without a word.

“How is she?”

“She is asleep. Don't disturb her. She is fine, but there may very well be a scar. Fortunately it is far to the side of her face.”

“Did Dr. Graham—”

“What, Frances?”

“Did he ask about the details of the accident?”

“Only those that he needed to know.”

When I awoke, I found Tessa tending to Martha downstairs in the kitchen. Matthew had evidently sent for her in the early-morning hours. He sent for Clara later that day.

I was not certain, at the time, how many details of that evening Matthew had shared, and with whom. Clara treated me gently, but she always had, in her elder-sisterly way. You were lost in your studies, I believe. And when I saw Dr. Graham thereafter, I was afraid to meet his eye.