Monica Rodden - Monsters Among Us

Catherine stared out the window of her bedroom and thought about throwing herself out of it.

She could do it, too. There was a screen, but she could unlatch it, or kick it out the way people did in movies. Or cut through it with a knife the way the serial killers did in movies. Shed crawl out like a cat onto the roof, the tiles hard and gritty under her palms, then shed stand up, breathe in the gray winter air, and run until that was all there was under her bare feet.

Catherine?

She turned, dropping her duffel and stepping away from the window. Her mother was in the doorway, all soft blond hair and wide eyes. Her sweater was overlong and swallowed her wrists.

My mom is smaller than I am, Catherine thought. When did that happen?

I wanted to see if you needed anything, her mother said, taking one small step into the room.

Catherine shook her head.

Your father could have gotten that for you. A gesture toward the bag at Catherines feet.

Yes, Catherine thought, he could have. But that might have required him to look at her, and he didnt seem able to do that since she came home. So different from just Thanksgiving break last month, drinking cider on the couch, small dessert plates balanced on their laps, all of them laughing at a car commercial for some reason she couldnt remember. But now there was something between them all, a wall her mother touched with outstretched fingers, making patting and smoothing motions without actually reaching her. But her father made no attempt at all, seeming grateful, in fact, for the barrier.

Its fine, Catherine said. I think Im going to sleep.

Of course. Her mother, after a brief hesitation, crossed the room, hands reaching out. A nurses hands, slightly rough, used to dealing with emergencies that werent her own. Can I?

Oh. Catherine swallowed. Sure.

Her mother hugged her. Im so sorry, dear.

Catherine nodded against her mothers neck, her eyes fixed on the flat of her bed, the stark white coverlet, dotted with gold and silver suns, moons, and stars.

Hey, Mom?

Her mother pulled away, wiping her eyes, which were a little darker blue than Catherines. A little more beautiful. Im sorry. I shouldnt.

Catherine shook her head. No, its justcan you not tell anyone?

Her mother stared at her blankly, eyelashes wet.

About what happened, Catherine added unhelpfully.

I wouldnt

No, I know. I just wanted to

Right

I just dont want to talk about it. Whatever it was.

Of course not. A pause. Do you remember anything more?

No.

Catherine walked toward the bed and crawled under the sheets. They were cold. She made herself smile at her mother.

The curtains? Her mother made to draw them closed.

No, Catherine said, a little too quickly, thenSorry. No. Leave them. And the light, too. Please.

Her mother left. Catherine turned where she lay and looked out the window. It was a typical Washington afternoon, low gray light and the promise of rain. Trees everywhere, the ones not bare such a lush green they looked painted. Shed been studying William Blake at the university: his poetry and his art. One of his works, a depiction of Dantes hell, was called The Woods of the Self-Murderers. Suicides were damned to the seventh circle and entombed in treestrees that Blake drew hunched and brittle-brown, so unlike the tall, healthy ones outside her window. Catherine noticed something in that painting, something you had to look at closely to see: human forms traced inside each trunk. A man was hidden in the right tree, but she had eyes only for the woman on the left, who was trapped upside down, her hair spilling over the roots, her feet lost in the branches above.

They are the only souls in hell with no possibility of redemption, Professor Graham had explained in the dim light of the classroom, the watercolor projected massively on the wall, as they rejected Gods gift of life.

Catherine twisted away from the window now, eyes screwed shut.

Do you remember anything more?

I was still, she thought. Couldnt move. There was laughter. Pain. Like hell.

Like I deserved it.

She didnt think shed slept at all, but when she finally sat up the clock on her nightstand read two in the morning. She got up, wrapped herself in a thick bathrobe, and felt her way along the dark hallway to the stairs. When she reached the kitchen, she flipped the switch that turned on the light just above the sink; turn the other switch and the whole kitchen would light up like a spotlight and there would be no shadows at all.