already had too much to worry about.
She could deal with only one thing at a time. Amy’s problem had to
come first.
If some horrible thing was growing in the girl’s womb, it had to be
gotten rid of as quickly as possible. Maybe then, after the abortion,
Ellen would be able to consider her life and decide what she thought of
the woman she had allowed herself to become, maybe then she would have
the time to reflect on what she had done to her family. But not now.
God, please, not now.
She tilted her glass and chugged the rest of her drink as if it were
only water. With an unsteady hand she poured a little more orange
juice and a lot more vodka.
Most nights she wasn’t really drunk until eleven or twelve o’clock, but
tonight, by nine-thirty, Ellen was thoroughly intoxicated. She felt
fuzzy, and her tongue was thick. She was floating dreamily. She had
attained the pleasant, mindless state of grace that she had desired so
strongly.
When she glanced at the kitchen clock and saw that it was nine-thirty,
she realized it was Joey’s bedtime. She decided to go upstairs, make
sure he said his prayers, tuck him in, kiss him goodnight, and tell him
a bedtime story.
She hadn’t told him any stories in a long, long time. He’d probably
like that.
He wasn’t too old for bedtime stories, was he? He was still just a
baby. A little angel. He had such a sweet, angelic, baby face.
Sometimes she loved him so hard that she thought she’d explode. Like
now. She was brimming with love for little Joey. She wanted to kiss
his sweet face. She wanted to sit on the edge of the bed and tell him
a story about elves and princesses.
That would be good, so good, just to sit on the edge of the bed with
him smiling up at her.
Ellen finished her drink and got to her feet. She stood up too fast,
and the room spun around, and she grabbed the edge of the table in
order to keep her balance.
Crossing the living room, she bumped into an end table and knocked over
a lovely, hand-carved, wooden statue of Jesus, which she had bought a
long time ago, in her waitressing days. The statue fell onto the
carpet, and although it was only a foot high and not heavy, she fumbled
awkwardly with it, trying to retrieve it and set it back where it
belonged, her fingers felt like fat sausages and didn’t seem to want to
bend the right way.
She wondered fleetingly if the bedtime story was a good idea after
all.
Maybe she wasn’t up l to it. But then she thought of Joey’s sweet face
and his cherubic smile, and she went upstairs. The steps were
treacherous, but she reached the second-floor hallway without
falling.
When she entered the boy’s room, she found that he was already in
bed.
Only the tiny nightlight was burning, a single small bulb in the wall
plug, ghostly, moon-pale.
She stopped inside the doorway, listening. He usually snored softly
when he slept, but at the moment he was perfectly quiet. Maybe he
wasn’t asleep yet.
Swaying with each step, she walked gingerly to the bed and looked down
at him.
She couldn’t see much in the dim light.
Deciding that he must be asleep, wanting only to plant a kiss on his
head, Ellen leaned close-And a leering, luminous, inhuman face jumped
out of the darkness at her, screeching like an angry bird.
She shrieked and staggered backwards. She collided with the dresser,
hurting her hip.
In her mind she saw a kaleidoscopic tumble of dark, horrific images: a
bassinet shaken by the fury of its monstrous burden, enormous, green,
animal eyes gleaming with hatred, flared, twisted nostrils sniffing,
sniffing, a pale, speckled tongue, long and bony fingers reaching for
her in the flutter-flash of lightning, claws tearing at her . . .
The nightstand light came on, dispelling the awful memories.
Joey was sitting up in bed. Mama?” he said.
Ellen sagged against the dresser and drew deeply, thirstily of the air