The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (35 page)

“Have a pleasant evening and be sure to say hi to Germaine for me.”

As Mercedes hung up the phone, some of the optimism she had just mustered drained out of her.

She decided to put him out of her mind for the time being. It was time to take the upper hand and make the most of the situation. She changed clothes and drove down the hill, with music blaring, to pick up her daughter from her after-school activities. Their first stop was a shoe store. Then they walked to a nearby bookstore. Nothing took her mind away from life like a good novel. She bought three, plus two new books for them to read aloud together. Finally they drove to one of their favorite places, a natural foods restaurant in Berkeley. The waiters were cheerful students with big hair, beads, and Birkenstocks.

Between mouthfuls, and completely off the subject of their conversation, Germaine blurted out, “Mom, what’s the matter with Jack?”

Mercedes looked into her daughter’s sad gray eyes. “I’m not really sure.”

“He’s been so weird lately. He doesn’t remember stuff and he’s grouchy and he’s just no fun like he used to be.”

“I think he’s having some trouble getting used to living with a family. It’s new to him.”

“Well, he’s new to us, too! Jeez!”

Mercedes nodded.

“It’s like he’s becoming a different person. He’s kind of mean to me when you’re in another room.” Germaine scowled and stuck out her chin.

“Mean to you? Like how?”

“I can’t ask him a simple question without him getting all huffy about it. And sometimes he looks at me like he wants me to get lost. He’s just not nice like he used to be. It really makes me mad. I haven’t done anything to him.”

“Germaine, I know he loves you very much. And I agree he’s not been himself lately. He’s got too much going on at work, and I don’t think he’s feeling well.”

Germaine shook her head, rejecting her mother’s explanation. She pressed her feet down hard into the new shoes and appreciated the room her toes now had. Then she looked down into her plate and quietly confessed, “Mom, sometimes I wish it was just you and me again.”

Mercedes dared not ask herself if she felt the same way. “We’ll
always
have you and me. That’s permanent,” she reassured her daughter. “Things will get better, you’ll see. By the way, I think we have a new friend living in the neighborhood. He’s a very colorful fellow, who loves to show off. . . .” And she told Germaine all about the pheasant.

L
ATE THAT NIGHT MERCEDES AWOKE
to an empty bed. She thought she’d heard Jack’s car pull in earlier, but he was not beside her. She heard a cough in the living room. She got up and slipped on her robe. He was sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out, still clothed in his black gabardine suit pants, with the necktie loosened in his collar. The shock of silver at his temples was more pronounced than it had been a few months earlier. He was reading
The Economist
with a drink in his hand. A small fire was dying down in the grate. He smiled up at her.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said calmly. “I was coming in in a moment.”

He set his drink down on the floor as she bent over to kiss him. He pulled her down on top of him and cradled her in his arms. He switched off the reading light. The firelight flickered and the tree branches scraped against the side of the house in the wind. Shadows danced on the opposite wall. She settled her head on him and listened to his heart beat. She was too tired to tell him about the day or ask about his. She closed her eyes and felt small in his arms. She
desperately wanted to believe that all her worries would go away as mysteriously as they had come.

When they walked down the hall toward the bedroom, Jack stepped into his stepdaughter’s room to check on her. He pulled up her covers, checked that the door to the outside was locked, and took a look at the books on her desk and nightstand. Mercedes watched from the doorway. These were not the contrived gestures of a man who regretted having become a stepfather. He loved Germaine and was protective of her.

She climbed back into bed. When he joined her he held her again, smelled her neck, and kissed her as though he meant it.

“I’m so glad I married you, Bella,” he whispered.

Then go back to being the man I married.

She closed her eyes and let go of all thoughts of him. She felt relieved, as though a weight had been lifted. She contemplated her options and recalled Germaine’s troubled eyes and stern expression at dinner.

T
HEY WERE SELECTING BOOKS IN
the bookstore. She saw Germaine’s feet in her beautiful new shoes. Next to them were the pheasant’s. She heard his strutting steps on the carpet of the bookstore as he promenaded around both of them, then down the aisle, his wings tucked up close to his sides, leading them away from the store.

Then they were out in the forest of her childhood, among the shaggy cedars and pecan trees. She and Germaine scrambled through the underbrush after the pheasant. He turned his iridescent head to see them, his curious eyes circled in red. He looked at them knowingly and spread his brilliant plumage in full display. He stepped proudly into a small clearing, illuminated by the slanted shafts of sunlight that penetrated the forest canopy. He let out a piercing call, spread his wings, and took flight.

J
ack stormed out of the living room toward the master bedroom, presumably to get ready for bed. His relentless bickering had left Mercedes in a black mood, furious, and sick of him. She was grateful it was spring break and Germaine was away at Yosemite because she could take refuge in her daughter’s bed. She was at the end of her rope.

A strange rhythmical thumping sound came from the master bedroom, like the sound of a dog’s tail wagging against the floor. When she went to investigate, she was surprised to see the bed still made. The bedside lamp was on, but Jack was nowhere to be seen. Then she spotted his feet protruding from the closet, jerking uncontrollably. The thump-thump-thump came from his body banging against the floor. She caught her breath and raced to the closet.

Jack was on his back where he’d fallen. His arms were flailing and his right leg was at an unnatural angle. His eyes were open, but revolved to show only white; his body convulsed vigorously. Waves of energy coursed through him as he foamed at the mouth. His
tongue rolled back in his throat, and he made gurgling sounds. She froze in horror.

Momentarily his convulsions subsided and his eyes rolled back around. He lay there stunned, as if in a trance, staring vacantly ahead, unaware of his surroundings.

She put two fingers into his mouth and flattened out his tongue. She examined his head for blood, and found none. She grabbed a towel from the laundry basket and wiped the saliva from his face and neck. She straightened his limbs as best she could, with his clothes all twisted around his body. He must have been in the act of undressing when he’d fallen and started convulsing. He focused and stared at her as if she were a stranger.

“Jack, can you understand me? Can you feel your hands and feet?”

He moaned and tried using his arms to maneuver his unresponsive body. He struggled to get up. Soon he was sitting, holding his head in his hands. With a monumental effort, he got on all fours and crawled slowly to the bed. He pulled himself up and climbed onto it.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine,” he said abruptly.

“Jack, you just had a seizure!”

“No, I fainted.”

“Fainting would be bad enough! But I saw you. You were having a seizure.”

He gave her a nasty look. “Ridiculous,” he spat out. “My head hurts. I just want to sleep.”

“Jack, you need to see a doctor
tonight.”

“No.”

He broke into a coughing fit, which forced him to sit up and then nearly toppled him. He sat up again and tried to take off his
socks but couldn’t manage it, so he gave up and struggled with the buttons on his shirt. She knelt in front of him, gently pulled his hands away, and placed them on his thighs. He looked into her eyes with such a forlorn expression that she hugged him. He leaned into her and buried his face in her neck and hair.

She unbuttoned the shirt and took his clothes off, while he coughed continually. She helped him into his nightclothes. He gave a sigh of relief and lay down when it seemed to be over.

“Jack, I should take you to the hospital or call 9-1-1 or something.”

“No,” he mumbled, “just let me sleep, please.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled, then erupted into coughing. He seemed thoroughly drained of energy, all reserves depleted. She listened to his wheezing between coughs, the perpetual wheeze he had brought back from Hawaii.

She debated. If she called for an ambulance, how would the paramedics deal with a huge man who refused to cooperate? She pictured them trying to strap him to a gurney. Being tied to a bed would push every button Jack had. They would go to the ER in the morning. She covered him and turned out the lamp on his bedside table.

She had to find out who his doctor was and get to the bottom of it. She rummaged through his drawers in the bathroom, through the writing desk and his bureau. She had never opened the small drawers on top. They were full of pens, business cards, and random keys, but no clues to his medical care. She searched his wallet, to no avail. He slept on, wheezing and coughing, unaware of anything.

It was after 1:00 a.m. when she climbed into Germaine’s bed. She told herself the doctors would find an explanation for all this and treat it. But then she wondered what would happen if Jack
were
seriously ill. How would she care for him and hold down her job? How would she keep things afloat?

You’re getting ahead of yourself. Jack is sleeping. Germaine is with her friends. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

She slept fitfully and was awake when daylight broke. The first image in her mind was Jack’s body convulsing, his eyes rolled back in his head, gagging on his own tongue.

When had she become afraid of him, his mood swings, and his vicious streak? She recalled his last verbal assault before the seizure, and it repelled her all over again.

She got up to get a drink of water from the bathroom. She looked into the mirror. She’d lost weight from all the stress in recent months. Her face, angular by nature, was much more so now. Her eyes showed exhaustion and anxiety. She washed her hands and went into their bedroom. Jack lay on his side, breathing with difficulty and wheezing, as though a war now raged in his lungs.

She slipped into bed behind him. She felt the warmth of his body, the comfort of his big back, damp with perspiration, and closed her eyes. She sank into a black dreamless sleep, an abyss devoid of images.

Sometime later, she became dimly aware of his coughing. Then something jerked her into consciousness. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wheezing and coughing violently. She touched his back, thinking to reassure him, but he jumped in a fright, shocked by her touch. The face that turned to her was not one she had ever seen. He was beet red and wild-eyed, drooling at the corners of his mouth, his hair sticking out all over his head. At first he seemed shocked to see her, and leered at her maniacally.

“Jack!” she cried out. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital!” She jumped out of bed and hurried around to his side.

He looked at his hands and pulled up the sleeves of his pajamas. His hands, arms, neck, and head were covered with a brilliant red rash. He looked down. His feet, too, were swollen with the rash. His
face was puffy. He coughed uncontrollably. She felt the back of his neck. He was burning up. He slapped her hand away.

She ran into the closet, ripped off her nightgown, and pulled on the first clothes her hands could seize. She chose Jack’s clothes and took them out to the bed. He had not moved from where he sat. She gave her hair a few violent brush strokes and jammed it into a ponytail on her way to the bathroom.

She grabbed a washcloth and dampened it under warm water. Jack was struggling for air. Between the bouts of coughing, she gently wiped his face. This calmed him. His eyes looked bluer than possible, peering sadly out of a bright red face, now with an expression of bewilderment.