The Girl In The Woods Part 2

But as he lay there, looking at the stars that dotted the sky and the almost fully risen moon, he knew it was only temporary. He smelled the rich earth, the thick green vegetation and knew that he had to put the girl in the ground. But once she went in there, he would be alone.

Really alone.

No one else in his family had ever lived alone. His mother died first, but Dad had him for company. And right after Dad died, the girl came to live with him. But now he faced the future by himself, with no one to help him or guide him. No one to care for him.

He thought about bringing the girl back into the house with him, just for a little while, but he couldn't bring himself to do that. It would be wrong. Indecent. He couldn't do anything like that in his parents' house.

So he continued to stare at the sky and tried to open himself up to the power of the clearing.

And the answer came to him in just a few minutes: Why not find a new wife?

As soon as he thought it, Roger knew he had found the solution to all of his problems. He could find a new wife, someone to come and take the girl's place, and then he wouldn't have to be alone in the house. He wouldn't have to be alone at all.

He felt the tingling in his hands again. He felt like there was nothing he couldn't do.

He climbed to his feet, dusting the dirt and leaves off of his skin, and then pulled his pants up, zipping and b.u.t.toning them, noting that he felt so much more comfortable now than when he had come to the clearing.

Yes, he thought, I'll find a new wife. A new one just as good as the old one.

He felt a pleasant burst of energy course through his body, a sense of freshness and renewal that he hadn't felt in a long time.

He grabbed the shovel. He had work to finish tonight.

And he had a new task to devote himself to tomorrow.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Diana was driving down Highway Seventeen northbound, the main road between New Cambridge and Leesburg, when she reached for the radio volume dial and saw how much her hand was shaking. She brought it back, gripping the wheel with both hands, and shook her head, although there was no one there to see the gesture, just a farmer in his combine, chewing up acres of withering cornstalks and kicking up enough dust to partially obscure the red sunset.

She's crazy, Diana thought. Just a crazy woman who wants to mess with me.

And Diana had heard of plenty of people who do things like that-prey on the families of crime victims, tease them, get their hopes up and take advantage of them, all in the name of sick thrills or morbid curiosity. Diana shook her head again. She wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of violating or victimizing her, and she already regretted losing her cool with the woman, grabbing her arm that way and giving her some sort of power or pleasure. She knew she had to collect herself and be ready to face her own mother. She couldn't go in there rattled or shaken.

Her mother had been in the Vienna Woods Long-Term Rehabilitation Facility for three years, as long as Diana had been living in New Cambridge. It had begun innocently enough for her mother. Forgotten names. Lost keys. A poorly balanced checkbook, which didn't matter much to a woman who never had any money. But then her mom started forgetting entire swatches of their lives. She spoke to relatives who had died years before.

And she repeatedly called Diana by the name of her other daughter, the one who had disappeared into thin air.

Rachel.

In Diana's most honest moments, the times when she turned the full force of her own critical judgment against herself, she admitted that it was this more than anything else-more than her mother's illness, more than the confining nature of the small town she grew up in, more than the opportunities that moving away presented-that drove Diana to commit her mother to Vienna Woods. She couldn't handle the almost daily reminder that it was she who was still there while Rachel, her little sister, was gone, evaporated like a fast-moving cloud on a windy day.

But who are you to judge someone else's mental health, with your visions of the dark woods you're never able to find? Diana chased the thought away and felt relief when she saw the hospital come into view.

The attendant at the Vienna Woods' gate stopped Diana and made her sign in on a beat-up clipboard. An eight-foot high chain link fence surrounded the parking lot, and while there wasn't any razor wire on top, it still made the place look like a prison. Diana swallowed her guilt and drove through, the guard's Have a nice day ringing in her ears.

The hospital itself looked rundown and vacant. It was three stories high with narrow windows and two turrets on either end, as if the original architect feared that someone was going to attack the place and release all the loonies. The brick, which once must have been a bright and healthy shade of red, had become grimy and blackened after years of exposure to the midwestern weather. Rumors appeared in the paper at least once a year that Vienna Woods was scheduled to close, that the patients living there were slowly being farmed out to other inst.i.tutions. Families of the patients-inmates, Diana thought, they're really inmates-complained about the building's crumbling infrastructure, the leaky pipes and poor heating.

But Diana didn't like to think of the place closing. Where would her mom go then? How far would she have to drive to see her? Diana found an empty parking s.p.a.ce. Six o' three. She hustled to the door while a little voice taunted her. You already don't visit her enough. Diana blocked out her negative thoughts. No time for guilt now. I'm here.

Diana signed in again, this time at the main desk, received a visitor's badge and went down a long hallway on the left toward her mother's ward. Her mom certainly wasn't close to being one of the worst patients in the place. Diana knew that the first floor was for the mildly nutty, and as one went higher in the building, the condition of the patients worsened. She didn't want to think about what lived on the third floor, although she knew that as her mother's disease progressed, she would, more than likely, get moved up.

Patients moaned behind closed doors, and the thick odor of disinfectant barely covered the rot and decay underneath. Human beings warehoused and slowly dying, and worst of all, their minds were dying first. Diana found the day room where the art show was scheduled to take place. The patients were scattered throughout, some in wheelchairs, some slouched over on the uncomfortable couches. A social worker in a pants suit stood at the front with the patient paintings, and two weary-looking attendants stood to the side, their arms folded, their boredom palpable.

Diana spotted her mom, sitting in a plastic chair near the front. Though only fifty, she looked closer to seventy, and every time Diana visited, it seemed like five years had been added to her age. Deeper lines, grayer hair, the bones rising, pressing against the skin. When Diana was a child, people always pointed out how much she resembled her mother, and at the time, Diana took pride in the comparison. They had the same small frame, the same deep brown eyes. But whenever she went to the hospital for a visit, Diana wondered if she was staring at some future version of herself, one that genetics and fate was leading her toward: mind and body wasting away at an accelerated rate in a depressing inst.i.tution.

Diana slipped in quietly and, when she settled in the seat next to her mom, didn't receive so much as a glance. She recognized Diana about fifty percent of the time, a percentage Diana knew was only going to decrease as the disease worked its way deeper into her mind.

The social worker, a woman named Maria, had her hair pulled back into a small bun-nothing for the patients to grab hold of-and smiled broadly as she pointed to the paintings belonging to Emily, a woman not much older than Diana who had suffered head trauma in a car accident. Emily didn't speak, but instead sat in a wheelchair, her body tilted to the side, the kind of helmet kids wore to skateboard attached to her head. The canvas had a smear of finger paints, mostly green with a splattering of red that looked like vomit, and Diana wished she could be someplace else, anyplace else, rather than in a mental hospital being reminded of all the awful things that can happen to the human mind while the body kept merrily functioning.

When Maria finished talking about Emily's masterpiece, those who were able applauded, while others moaned and some even slept.

"And now," Maria said, "we have a painting by our very own Janet Greene." She nodded toward Diana's mom who smiled uncertainly as if someone had made a joke in another language. "Isn't this wonderful work?"

The painting was crude, black paint in thick strokes on white paper. It appeared to show a house, child-like in its simplicity. A square with a pointed roof and two windows, a squiggle of smoke curling from its chimney. There were trees around the house, straight lines for trunks and swirling, ragged-looking leaves. Diana felt a clutch of pity in her chest. Her mother, an adult human being, reduced to being praised for producing something a kindergartner could do.

"Janet?" Maria said. "Do you have anything to say about this?"

For a moment, her mom didn't speak, and Diana thought she had tuned them out, gone to whatever place inside the lost world of her own mind she traveled to. But then she cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter.

"That's my daughter's house," she said.

Maria nodded. "Lovely. And is this your daughter with you here today?"

Her mom looked over as if seeing Diana for the first time. "Yes," she said. "That's my daughter. That's Rachel. She lives in the house."

"We're so glad Rachel could come and join us. We love it when family members come to our shows."

But Diana was shaking her head. She felt the eyes of the entire room on her, everyone expecting the dutiful daughter to smile and nod and go along. But for some reason, Diana couldn't.

I'm not Rachel.

"No, Mom," she said. "I'm Diana."

"Rachel," her mom said, the name coming out of her mouth like an incantation, a word of protection and comfort. She repeated it. "Rachel."

"No, Mom. Diana. Rachel's gone. Remember? She left us. She left right before you got sick."

The room grew pin-drop quiet. Maria took a step forward, reached back and checked the condition of her bun. They didn't like disruptions at Vienna Woods, didn't like people-especially family-to come in and agitate the patients.

Her mom kept staring at Diana, certainty etched on her face. "You're Rachel, I know. I know my child."

"Well," Maria said, "I'm sure you and your sister look a lot alike."

"We don't," Diana said. "She was the pretty one." Diana took her mom's hand. "Mom, I know you know who I am. I know you can remember what happened to Rachel. She went down our road that night and didn't come back. We fought with her-"

"These matters are often best discussed in family therapy," Maria said, her voice rising over the room. She rea.s.serted her control by taking Janet's painting down and moving on. "I see we have something by Tony, and it looks like a watercolor."

But Diana held tight to her mother's hand. She stared into her eyes, looking for something, some life, some spark of recognition. "Mom, do you know what I'm saying to you?"

Her mom pulled her hand back and in the same motion slapped Diana across the face. "You're Rachel. You liar. You're Rachel. You're Rachel."

Her mother screamed the words over and over, and the room fell into chaos as the attendants grabbed her mom, and the other patients yelled and moaned and Maria stared at Diana as if she were the worst daughter who had ever walked the earth.

Diana rubbed her cheek, felt the raw sting of her mom's hand for the first time since childhood, and decided that if that's what Maria really thought, there was no argument she could offer in her own defense.

While the attendants calmed and sedated her mother, Diana was forced to listen to a lecture from Maria in a cramped office near the nurses' station. The room was cluttered with papers and binders, and on the desk, Maria had a picture of her own family-a beaming, manly husband and two toddler sons in matching clothes. Not a hint of trouble, scandal or tragedy in her family.

"I don't think you understand the seriousness of what happened this evening," Maria said. Her bun was still in place, but her cheeks were flushed from the excitement. "Your mother is very ill, terminally so, and she's not going to get any better. She doesn't know what year it is or what state she's living in. You can't expect her to know the difference between you and your sister. It's not her fault."

"Can I see her now?" Diana said.

Maria shook her head. "I don't know if I'm going to let you see her. She needs her rest."

"Then I'm going to go."

"Wait. You need to hear this." She brushed some paperclips aside, then folded her hands on the desk. "I know about your family's history. I know your father left the family when you and your sister were just children. I know that your sister disappeared four years ago and is presumed to be dead."

"She is dead."

"Why do you say that?"

Diana shrugged, and thought of Kay Todd, a pathetic woman clinging to a pathetic hope. She didn't want to turn into that, and she told herself that the visions, the pathetic visions, were just that-false hope, refusing to die. "Just a feeling I have. Rachel wasn't much for standing on her own two feet. She wouldn't make it long on her own."

"And no one's heard from her?"

"Not a word. The police said there was no evidence of a crime, so she must have run away. I think somebody probably took her. The end result is the same. She's gone, and mom went downhill because of it."

Maria raised a finger in the air. "You see, that's what I want to talk to you about. You act as though your mother's condition is a choice, that events in her personal life triggered this illness. I know you know better than that. She has Alzheimer's disease, and it's a coincidence that she developed it shortly after your sister disappeared. Admittedly, she developed the disease much earlier than is typical. Only about ten percent of cases present symptoms before the patient is sixty years old, so your mother's situation is quite rare."

"My mother has always run away and hidden when the going gets tough. When my dad left us, she went to bed for two years. I ran the household. I raised my sister. I know my mother has a disease, I know all about that. I've done the research. But I can't help but think this is her way of checking out and not dealing with what happened to Rachel. She calls me Rachel. Why? She paints a pretty house and says Rachel lives there. Why? Is that the reality she chooses to live in while the rest of us are stuck here?" Diana held out her hand. "I know, I know. It's not a choice. My mind knows that. I understand that. But there's a part of me, the part that knows my mom real well, that's suspicious."

Maria refolded her hands. "I can't make you feel compa.s.sion, Ms. Greene. But maybe this will help you see things in a different light. The child of someone with early onset Alzheimer's has a fifty-fifty chance of developing the disease themselves. Maybe that will help you gain some clarity." She stood up. "Why don't we go see your mom now. She's probably back in her room and resting."

CHAPTER FIVE.

Diana's mother looked semi-conscious, her eyes half-open, the blankets tucked underneath her armpits as though she were imprisoned in the bed. The curtain had been pulled between the two halves of the room, blocking Diana's view of her mom's roommate, Mrs. Platcher, eighty-eight years old and convinced that she had to catch a school bus every morning, p.r.o.ne to wander out of the building in her nightgown looking for the ride that never came.

The TV played low. A cable newscaster droned on and on, even though Mrs. Platcher was asleep as well. Diana looked out the window. There was nothing to see. It was full dark now, and the window reflected back the pale light of the bedside lamp, the reflection of Diana's face an isolated oval in the black pane. Visiting hours were almost over, and at any moment, Diana expected an efficient-looking nurse to come by and shoo her away. Diana wasn't even sure why she had stayed since her mom was out of it and she still had the long drive back to New Cambridge. Guilt again, she supposed, but there was more to it than that. She actually wanted to talk to her mother, who now stirred a little, muttered something in her sleep.

Diana leaned forward. "Mom?" She waited. "Mom, are you awake?"

Her mom muttered again, turned her head a little. "Diana?"

"Yeah, Mom."

Her eyes came open more. She licked her lips. "Is that you, honey?"

"It's me, Mom. Diana."

"How long have you been here?"

"Not long." Diana knew her mom would have no memory of the incident at the art show, no awareness that they had had a very public dust-up. It was all gone, lost in the shadows. "I want to ask you something."

"Tired..."

"I know. You can go to sleep in a minute. Do you know a woman named Kay Todd?"

Her mom remained silent for a long moment, and Diana thought she had drifted away, but then her mother opened her cracked lips. "Who?"

"Kay Todd. Do you know her?"

"I don't know anyone by that name, honey." She closed her eyes all the way. "You should go home. It's late...go home."

Music swelled on the newscast, the cue for the audience that either something dramatic was happening or an important commercial was about to play. Diana turned to the window and looked at the darkness. Thoughts of the long drive home and the return to the empty apartment didn't appeal to Diana. Something about the hospital room, the rhythmic breathing of her mother, and even the TV's strange voices brought Diana a sense of comfort, a return to childhood nights huddled against her mother, the rest of the world temporarily held at bay.

She leaned back against her chair, closed her eyes, blocked out the day's events, and tried to convince herself, really convince herself, that just for those moments and in that place she was as safe as she could be.

Diana woke in the half-light. She felt cold, and wrapped her arms tighter against her body, hoping to generate warmth. But the movement only aggravated the pain in her neck, the result of spending hours in the uncomfortable chair beside her mother's bed.

Diana groaned and stretched. She had to pee.

"I was just about to get you a blanket."

It took a moment to locate the source of the voice. The sun wasn't fully up, and the light in the room was still hazy and indistinct. Diana's eyes finally settled on the nurse standing on the opposite side of her mother's bed, a tall black woman who was writing something in her mother's chart.

Diana sat up. "I must have fallen asleep."

"It's okay," the nurse said. "We're not supposed to have sleepover guests, but I figured it's not hurting anything to let someone stay close to their mom all night."