Читать книгу Moon Music - Faye Kellerman - Страница 8

It was well past three, so Alison knew Steve was working a legitimate case. Which didn’t surprise her, given the circumstances of the evening.

No matter how many times she bathed, it still remained with her. The smell of sweat, the taste of blood, the adrenaline rush that appeared from nowhere. Scratches scored her arms, chest, and back. Superficial. They didn’t hurt … would probably disappear in a day or so. But they looked suspicious. If Steve saw them, he’d ask questions. Like how did they get there.

As if she knew.

What was happening to her?

Washing and scrubbing. First with soap, then with alcohol, lastly with bleach. Burning and stinging her until she had to rip and tear at her skin to make it stop.

She thought a moment.

Maybe she had put the scratches there. With her nails. Or with her loofah. Or her bathing sponge. Or the thick tufts of steel wool.

Why was she doing this?

And still she felt horribly dirty … contaminated.

That was the key word.

Contaminated.

Thinking it over. Trying to make sense out of it all.

Which was a dangerous thing to do. To think. Instead, she should be doing her research. She should try to discover. Because there had to be reasons for everything.

Her research. It grounded her. All the information in the green book. It was all there. If she could just piece it together, she’d have answers.

She stood at the bathroom sink, her body covered in Steve’s oversized Turkish terry robe. Standing bulky and fluffy, like a snowdrift. More like the yeti of Las Vegas. Her wet blond hair was still knotted, her red-rimmed hazel eyes shelved with dark circles. Turning the cold-water tap on and off.

On and off. On and off. On and off. On and off.

Quietly … so as not to disturb the boys.

Trying to think it through.

Like when she was little.

All the rituals. They had started after Mom had died. Everyone agreed on that. The tragedy had been the triggering factor. At first, the rituals had been harmless enough—silly, childish obsessions. Checking windows before she went to bed. Opening and closing dresser drawers before she pulled out an article of clothing.

But then they had progressed into lengthy codes of unstoppable behavior. Kissing her bedpost a thousand times before she went to sleep. Closing and opening the curtains for a full hour. Constantly checking her closet for hidden burglars. Straightening her desk so many times that she fell asleep before she could study. Her native intelligence had kept her afloat—an A/B student without even trying.

Years of therapy had followed her mother’s death. Dad carting her to every psychiatrist in the city. Yes, the gambling mecca boasted shows and entertainment. But go past the casinos, past the stars, the glitter and glitz. That Las Vegas—the city of her youth—had been a small, naive town with little to offer except heat and sand.

This medication, that medication. This therapy, that therapy. All of it rooted in the tragedy. Because no one had dared to speak the word suicide.

Still, something must have taken hold. Because during her adolescent years, when most of her classmates had gone off on fanciful flights of psychosis and self-destruction, she had become a model teen. Calm, cool, very popular, because she had been smart, classy, pretty, and experienced in all the right places. No, never had problems attracting boys … more like keeping them away. She had treated them like playing chips—discarding or hoarding them at will. Somehow, her compadres had magically forgotten about that weirdo, psycho little girl who sat by herself and never spoke a word.

Not Rom, of course. Rom was different. Rom had eyes in the back of his head—saw and heard everything. Honoring her request, he had left her alone in high school. Yet, he had always been there … lurking in some corner … completely at ease with himself and his geekiness. Nothing had ever bothered him … not the insults, not the taunts, not the rejections. Slings and arrows had bounced off him as if he were protected by chain mail. She had admired him for it. Told him so when they had turned adults.

But back then, she hadn’t been able to accept him. Because she had been popular. And popular girls didn’t say such things to geeks.

Shame suddenly coursed through her veins. Feeling the heat in her face. But it wasn’t her fault. Because she had no one to guide her. Besides … it was all working out. Everyone loved Alison.

Gliding through high school because she had managed to condense her routines into one or two tidy rituals.

Like handwashing. Infinitely better than kissing bedposts. Now, at least, her hands were always antiseptic.

Ten minutes had passed.

Water on and off. On and off. On and off.

Then she took the plunge. Forced herself to turn off the water and pick up the hairbrush. Major anxiety—an accelerated heartbeat, jumpiness in her stomach, lightheadedness. But she talked herself through it.

I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay.

Running the hard nylon brush through her shoulder-length locks. Combing out the knots. With each successive stroke, her agitation lessened. By the time she was done, she only needed to turn the water off and on a couple of dozen times. Then she told herself to leave.

Practicing an exercise she had learned years ago. To literally take her own hand and guide herself out of the high-frequency-behavior area. Tugging at her own fingers until she was back in her bedroom.

Now lie down!

An order.

She always listened to orders.

Except when the voices told her not to.

But that didn’t happen very much. No, not too much anymore. Because she knew they weren’t real, and often she talked back to them. Of course, when she did, it made her feel like she wanted to wash her hands again.

Longing to go back to the bathroom.

To run the tap.

On and off.

On and off.

On and off.

No, no, no. Better to do research.

You have a brain, Alison. Just learn to use it. Steve’s pithy encouragement to his young, new wife.

It had been right after they had been married. About a month after their fabulous honeymoon in Hawaii. She had burned something in the oven … probably a chicken. She figured that if it took a chicken two hours to bake at 350 degrees, why not cook it for one hour at 700? Except the oven didn’t go up to 700. So she had turned the sucker on the highest temperature—broil—and waited.

The small wooden house had been moments away from becoming tinder. The firemen had said she had been very lucky.

She hadn’t felt at all lucky.

It hadn’t been her fault. What had she known about cooking? Her dad’s idea of homemade grub had been picking a grapefruit from their backyard tree. Poor little thing … languishing in the clay soil. Still, Daddy had been persistent. He had fed it, nurtured it. And eventually it had given fruit … beautiful sweet, pink fruit.

Just like her.

Two beautiful boys. Daddy loved them so.

Her boys.

Have to stay sane or else they’d take away her boys. She knew that. Not that anyone ever said that to her explicitly. But she knew the score.

She had to stay sane.

It really wasn’t that hard to fool them. She could be sane when she had to be. It was just staying sane … as in all the time. Who could stay sane all the time?

Her research kept her grounded.

To read and write. To write and read.

Anything.

So long as the mind was occupied.

Because when the mind was occupied, there was no room for voices.