A Hostile Hometown

         Passing the “Welcome to Gerald Heights” sign—antiquated green script on wood painted the color of yellowing paper—she broke the vow she’d made ten years ago to never set foot in this town again. She hoped that the residents had forgotten what had happened then but knew that they hadn’t. Towns like Gerald Heights remembered every retort one blurted, every sharp glare one sent, every snort one made while laughing, every sliver of spinach that had ever peeked out from between one’s teeth when one smiled. No way would they forget an offense as horrific as that of which they’d accused Alaina.  

           She had never claimed complete innocence; when she’d learned of Patrick’s murder, she’d admitted to the police that she’d allowed a tough few months and far too little forethought to lure her into his arms. In fact, she, not they, had initiated the interview, because she had been the last person, other than the killer, to see Patrick before his death, so she knew that her testimony could prove instrumental in catching the monster. She had known that she would suffer as a result; news spread so fast in claustrophobic hovels like Gerald Heights that, within twenty-four hours, everyone would know and condemn her as an adulteress. She had not, however, expected them to also peg her as Patrick’s killer. She had thought that they knew her well enough to know that she never would have done this to her worst enemy, let alone a man she loved. And, yet, the arms that had rocked her bassinette had proven all too willing to dump its baby into the fire for the sake of having someone to blame. As such, life had become a pressure cooker. Whispers, their words indecipherable yet obvious, clung to her like a skunk’s musk; glares as scorching as the earth’s core singed her whenever she went to the diner or the Laundromat or the grocery store; friends and family stopped calling, inviting her to parties and barbecues, and allowing others to see them with her altogether. By moving away, she had not left everything she’d known and loved, because, in all senses save physical proximity, it had left her first.

           She hated herself for fretting over this, for she had much more important things to worry about. Kathie and Trever had been passing through Gerald Heights when a BMW (the unofficial town vehicle) running a stop sign had plowed into them. Kathie had escaped unscathed, but her brother had landed in the hospital, fighting for his life. The news had shattered her. She’d thought of Trever as she’d last seen him, stitched in moonlight, larimar-blue eyes lent a playful spark by the smirk propping up one corner of his lips. She’d recalled the warmth of his arm curled around her, the peppermint-scented humidity of his breath teasing her nostrils, the tenderness of his lips caressing hers. She’d thought of the day she’d told him why she’d left Gerald Heights, certain that he’d bolt. Instead, he’d assured her that he would never in a million years think her capable of such an atrocity, and she’d wept in his arms and inundated him with thanks he said she needn’t give. Deserting him, after all of this, would make her worthy of the censure she’d fled all those years ago, and she may never find another man willing to accept her.

And so she had ended up here. Sweaty palms clenching the wheel so tightly that her knuckles blanched, she passed the homes of her accusers, prissily-kept ranches on planes of grass as dense as an untouched rainforest. They gave way to downtown—antique-looking edifices huddled along the sidewalks lining the narrow street. A few women in sundresses and floppy hats lingered before the nail salon, giggles fluttering from their crimson lips, their newly-polished talons curling around their designer purses; a middle-aged man toting a canvas grocery bag stepped out of the glass door Quintessentials, the town’s one and only convenience store; an elderly couple stooped over china cups in the tea shop’s window. She half-expected them to whip their heads around and glare at her, but they didn’t, and she cruised by without incident.

           After a few more houses, she arrived the hospital, a brown brick block bearing down on her like a funnel cloud. She parked in the lot and forced breath into lungs as stiff as porcelain, telling herself that she could do this, certain that she couldn’t. Why, she asked herself as exited the car and headed to the building, had this happened? When reeling from the loss of life as she knew it, she’d found comfort in the belief that at least, therein, she had paid her karmic debt. Even if karma wanted more, though, why punish Trever, and Kathie, and his other loved ones, in the process? They had done nothing wrong. It didn’t seem fair.

           She passed through sliding glass doors into the lobby, a vacuous chamber offering meringue-white walls, oatmeal-colored tile floors, and skeletal chairs upholstered in burgundy burlap. Kathie, as pale as matzah, eyes flashing like those of a novice speaker about to orate in front of hundreds of people, jumped out of one of these chairs and came to her.

           “How is he?” Alaina asked, heartbeat a drum roll.

           “Still in surgery.”

           A bad sign?

           Not necessarily, she told herself. It meant that he had survived this long. But she couldn’t help feeling a heaviness, a darkness creeping over her like record humidity, flattening her lungs and squeezing her heart into her throat. She swallowed it and took a seat.

As she did so, she noticed the receptionist, an older woman who had treated her nicely enough before Patrick’s murder, glaring at her with an expression that brought her back to her confrontation with Lissa ten years ago. Lissa had stood on her porch, her face and neck so red that Alaina could barely differentiate where her skin ended and her crimson blouse started, the veins in her neck close to bursting. Spit grenades shooting from her lips, she’d called her a slut, a home-wrecker, a horrible excuse for a human being. She’d said that she hoped she’d rot in Hell, the sooner, the better, in a voice so saturated with contempt that Alaina had felt certain that she would soon make that happen. Instead, she’d stormed off, and Alaina had burst into tears.

           She fended off the memory, only to, moments later, face it again as a young woman with whom she’d gone to school strode in and stabbed her with a death-stare. She wanted to scream, to demand how they could think her capable of something so heinous, how they could still think her capable of it even after they’d had so much time to think. But nothing good would come of that, she told herself. She couldn’t afford to make a scene, to risk getting kicked out. So she swallowed her retorts and shifted her gaze to the black-and-white clock on the far wall, which told her that, though it had felt like eons, only twenty minutes had passed since she’d come in.

She shifted, feeling as if sitting on hot coals. She twisted sweaty palms in her lap. She bit her lower lip. She prayed. Another half hour passed. Then, a man in a white coat entered. She and Lissa flocked to him. He introduced himself as Dr. Hughes, Trever’s surgeon, and said that Trever had made it through the surgery but remained unconscious—they didn’t know when, or if, he would come to. Alaina simultaneously thanked God and spiraled into another worry tornado. Somehow, Kathie retained enough composure to ask Hughes whether they could see Trever. Hughes said they could.

           He led them down a hall bustling with nurses pushing stainless steel carts of gauze, cotton swabs, syringes, tongue depressors, and IV bags, the squeaks of the shoes of the former and the wheels of the latter grating on Alaina’s ears. He stopped in front of a room numbered “214” and gestured for them to go inside. They did so.

           The image that greeted her there punched her gut. Trever lay in bed, his form, silhouetted in its white sheet, seeming to have lost twenty pounds since she’d seen him two days ago. His skin had gone as pale as salt, his hair mussed and sporting the texture of a Brillo pad. Clumsy black stitches segmented a deep gash on his forehead. His eyes lay closed, and a plastic tube protruded from his equally-colorless lips. Though possessing the same features, he in no way resembled the man she knew.

           “Oh my God, Trever,” she gasped, collapsing against one of the bedside tables. “Oh my God, this is bad…”

           “He’s a fighter,” Kathie said, the strength in her voice diminished by the paleness of her flesh and the primal flicker of her eyes. “He’ll get through this.”

           Would he? Alaina didn’t know. Nor did Kathie. Nor did any other human being on Earth.

           They stayed by his bedside, praying, until nearly seven. Then, Kathie said, “I’m gonna go get some coffee. Why don’t you come with? You’ll go crazy if you sit in here too long.”

           Alaina had no appetite, but she also had no energy to argue, so she obliged, following her down to the cafeteria. There, Alaina faced more glares. More heat. She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails broke the skin of her palms, but she didn’t feel it. Finally taking notice, Kathie whispered, “Don’t worry about them, Lain. Doesn’t matter what they think.”

           Alaina didn’t answer, just followed her to one of the plywood tables, where she stared into her coffee as if it could tell her how to endure the coming hours. They kept up the farce for thirty minutes; then, they surrendered and headed back to the ER.

           There, a doctor met them, his sickly pallor shooting a nail into her heart. “You’re here for Mr. Bidwell?” he asked. They nodded. The doctor took a breath. “I’m sorry, ladies, but he coded while you were away.”

           It hit her like a tsunami. She withered against the doorframe, bile swelling in her throat. As if from a distance, she heard Kathie say, “I…I don’t understand. He was fine when we left him…”

           “It is strange,” the doctor agreed, “and we’re gonna have our ME do an autopsy. We’ll know more then.”

           Kathie shook her head, lower lip quivering. “No. This doesn’t make sense. People don’t just die for no reason…”

           No, they didn’t. He couldn’t have. She crouched like a softball player playing the field, chest heaving, blackness dancing along the edges of her vision.

           And then she caught movement. She turned her gaze toward it and saw something that ripped her guts to shreds.

           Lissa Heitman, dressed in scrubs with crude ice cream cone drawings on them, stood in the doorway of a nearby room, a sickening smirk snaking across her lips.