down, hon,” Willard said.
She dropped heavily into the solid oak chair—one of six that surrounded the equally heavy oak table.
“I woke up from the quake, and I went in to see if the kids were all right,” she repeated, her voice calm and even, as if she were repeating instructions on how to bottle boysenberry jelly or how to change a tire on a car. “Then I went into the living room and turned the furnace on—it was really cold, and you would be waking up in only an hour or so anyway,” she added, looking slightly discomfited at the admission of her guilt.
Willard shook his head and said, “Don’t worry about that. No problem.”
“Anyway,” she continued after a long pause, “Then I came into the kitchen and saw.... There were hundreds of them. Thousands.”
Willard almost shivered at the raw horror, the open revulsion in her voice. He reached over and touched her arm.
“Come on, honey, that’s impossible. Thousands?”
She whirled to glare at him. “I saw them. I know how it sounds. I know that sometimes I freak out pretty much when I see one or two of the filthy things. But I know what I saw.” She glanced around her—at the table, the counters, the floor. “They were all over everything. They were on the table, in the....” Her eyes flew open, and what little color there was in her cheeks bleached out. Her throat visibly constricted, so convulsively that Willard felt a pang of sympathetic pain. For a moment it seemed as if Catherine was choking.
Suddenly she burst from her chair and crossed the kitchen in two strides and doubled over by the sink. He heard the sounds of heaving, smelled the pungency of vomit, and rushed to her side. He held her tightly, one hand on her forehead—hot and damp. She vomited explosively again, and once again. He twisted the water taps and ran a stream of water into the sink. It curled around the clotted remains of Catherine’s breakfast, barely able to wash away the bitter-smelling stuff.
Catherine heaved once more, but this time nothing came. She was trembling beneath his hand, her muscles quivering and tight.
“Are you all right?” he asked, feeling like a fool—of course she’s not all right, all-right people don’t toss their cookies in the kitchen sink in the middle of the day, all-right people don’t shake like their insides have been vomited loose. But he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Are you okay?”
She nodded weakly
He helped her back to the table and lowered her into the chair. She sat with her head in her hands for a long time. Willard watched her carefully, alert for any signs of recurrent nausea. Sams was silent, watching as well.
Finally, Catherine looked up. “Sorry,” she said quietly. Her voice still shook. Her breath stank. Willard could smell the sourness on her breath and felt his own stomach twist momentarily. She sipped at the orange juice in her glass. That seemed to help.
“I just remembered....” She paled again, and Willard was afraid that she was in for another bout of vomiting, but she visibly controlled her reflexes, swallowing hard a couple of times. “They were in...,” she began, seemed to choke again, then she continued, her voice breaking, “… in the bread.”
Willard understood. His stomach convulsed again at the image her words conjured. “It’s okay. There were only a couple of pieces left in the wrapper this morning. I had a piece of toast before I went to bed last night, and I left the wrapper open. Like always.”
The last was a play for humor.
Catherine didn’t laugh.
“Anyway, when I got up this morning and cleaned up in here, I could tell that the rest of the bread was all dried out. I tossed it. And got a new loaf from the freezer.” He could trace the relief as it blossomed in her face. For a moment, it seemed as if she was struggling to say something, then her expression crumbled and she burst into tears, long and hard and frightening.
“I know I saw them. I know it. I
She dropped heavily into the solid oak chair—one of six that surrounded the equally heavy oak table.
“I woke up from the quake, and I went in to see if the kids were all right,” she repeated, her voice calm and even, as if she were repeating instructions on how to bottle boysenberry jelly or how to change a tire on a car. “Then I went into the living room and turned the furnace on—it was really cold, and you would be waking up in only an hour or so anyway,” she added, looking slightly discomfited at the admission of her guilt.
Willard shook his head and said, “Don’t worry about that. No problem.”
“Anyway,” she continued after a long pause, “Then I came into the kitchen and saw.... There were hundreds of them. Thousands.”
Willard almost shivered at the raw horror, the open revulsion in her voice. He reached over and touched her arm.
“Come on, honey, that’s impossible. Thousands?”
She whirled to glare at him. “I saw them. I know how it sounds. I know that sometimes I freak out pretty much when I see one or two of the filthy things. But I know what I saw.” She glanced around her—at the table, the counters, the floor. “They were all over everything. They were on the table, in the....” Her eyes flew open, and what little color there was in her cheeks bleached out. Her throat visibly constricted, so convulsively that Willard felt a pang of sympathetic pain. For a moment it seemed as if Catherine was choking.
Suddenly she burst from her chair and crossed the kitchen in two strides and doubled over by the sink. He heard the sounds of heaving, smelled the pungency of vomit, and rushed to her side. He held her tightly, one hand on her forehead—hot and damp. She vomited explosively again, and once again. He twisted the water taps and ran a stream of water into the sink. It curled around the clotted remains of Catherine’s breakfast, barely able to wash away the bitter-smelling stuff.
Catherine heaved once more, but this time nothing came. She was trembling beneath his hand, her muscles quivering and tight.
“Are you all right?” he asked, feeling like a fool—of course she’s not all right, all-right people don’t toss their cookies in the kitchen sink in the middle of the day, all-right people don’t shake like their insides have been vomited loose. But he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Are you okay?”
She nodded weakly
He helped her back to the table and lowered her into the chair. She sat with her head in her hands for a long time. Willard watched her carefully, alert for any signs of recurrent nausea. Sams was silent, watching as well.
Finally, Catherine looked up. “Sorry,” she said quietly. Her voice still shook. Her breath stank. Willard could smell the sourness on her breath and felt his own stomach twist momentarily. She sipped at the orange juice in her glass. That seemed to help.
“I just remembered....” She paled again, and Willard was afraid that she was in for another bout of vomiting, but she visibly controlled her reflexes, swallowing hard a couple of times. “They were in...,” she began, seemed to choke again, then she continued, her voice breaking, “… in the bread.”
Willard understood. His stomach convulsed again at the image her words conjured. “It’s okay. There were only a couple of pieces left in the wrapper this morning. I had a piece of toast before I went to bed last night, and I left the wrapper open. Like always.”
The last was a play for humor.
Catherine didn’t laugh.
“Anyway, when I got up this morning and cleaned up in here, I could tell that the rest of the bread was all dried out. I tossed it. And got a new loaf from the freezer.” He could trace the relief as it blossomed in her face. For a moment, it seemed as if she was struggling to say something, then her expression crumbled and she burst into tears, long and hard and frightening.
“I know I saw them. I know it. I
Similar Books
