We All Fall Down

Chapter 9

Rick

Things didn't take a turn for the worse right away. As the days went on, pieces of her vanished bit by excruciating bit. I began to miss it, miss her and the life we could have had together. I thought that maybe it was a family she desired, but struggled with balancing the idea of a having a child while going to school. I assured her that she could handle anything, but it became abundantly clear that I was profoundly wrong.

My phone trilled on my desk in the office I'd been moved to. I started in a cubicle when I initially landed this job. My parent's protests rang in my ears for months, making me wonder if I'd made a mistake dropping out of school. My pod mate was a man who smelled of cat piss and rarely wore pants that properly zipped. All those combined were incentive enough to hit numbers so my boss would look to me first for the promotion. Which he did.

"Rick Adams speaking!" I sang proudly into the receiver.

"Heya, Rick. It's Bob." He sounded disappointed saying his own name. I'd grown up with him, we'd learned to ride bikes together and snuck into his father's liquor cabinet once when we were kids. He was a good man, a friend, and hearing him sound this way was unusual.

"Everything alright?" I ask, moving my phone from one shoulder to the other.

"It's Patrice. She had a bit of a...an episode in the middle of the store. I hate calling you up at work, but I can't get her to calm down." As he spoke, it sounded like he was covering his mouth as not to be overheard.

My face burned with humiliation. Patrice had anxiety attacks before, but not to this extent. Not in public.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," I said, offering my apologies before hanging up and alerting my boss that I would return as soon as I could. I rushed over, hardly coming to complete stops at every stop sign. I found her, surrounded by dozens of people who were not helping, just watching on in horror. They were all stunned by the charade my wife was putting on for all to see, not even realizing how quickly word would spread about this, irreparably scarring the Adams' name.

John was sitting in the shopping cart, staring down at her. He was wearing only one shoe and a t-shirt stained with what seems to have been a red sucker. I helped Patrice off of the floor and into the car, her body clung to me like I was a life raft. She was shivering despite it being unseasonably warm out. I couldn't look Bob in the eye, or anyone else for that matter.

I drove them home—confirming that Patrice would be okay for the few hours until I could return—and went back to work, sweat dripping down my back, heart racing but it had only been about forty minutes. I assured my boss I would not be taking a lunch to make up for the time lost. I spent the rest of the afternoon toggling between how to help my wife and how to keep my job. Her outbursts were becoming harder and harder to keep private, and although my mother offered dozens of times to come help with John, I knew it would only anger Patrice more.

Living in a small town was a blessing and a curse. I was grateful to Bob for calling me instead of the police. I was thankful that Becky was so loving of John. By the end of the workday, I didn't feel as shaken. No marriage is perfect, but I made a vow to Patrice and she deserved my support now more than ever. With a renewed sense of calm, I walked to my car, rubbing my arms against the chill in the air. It had been so hot earlier in contrast, but the cool front had changed temperature abruptly, the mark of seasons changing and holidays approaching. Once in my car, I turned up the radio.

Flash flood warning in effect.... The DJ droned under the clap of thunder. Rain clouds hovered, squeezing out a downpour just as I pulled out of the parking lot. I whistled along to the music and looked forward to curling up with John on the couch after dinner. However, the closer I got to our street, the more uneasy I felt. Something was wrong.

The first thing I saw when I turned the corner was Becky, frantically rushing from her house to mine. I squinted against the downpour, brought my speed to a crawl and parallel parked beside my driveway. I should have been in more of a hurry, but my limbs felt heavy as though weighted with sacks of sand. Opening my car door, I stepped out and my foot sloshed in a stream of rushing water that pooled at the edge of the curb. I swung my other leg and hopped up onto the sidewalk, sprinting up my driveway where I crashed into Becky who was sobbing, her hands shaking as she grabs tightly onto my shoulders.

"I didn't call the police," she sputtered, her nails digging into my skin through my shirt.

"What happened? Is it Patrice? John?" Bile rose up my throat. I pushed past her and threw open the side door that lead from the garage into our kitchen. Patrice was soaked to the bone, sitting at the dining table and staring off into space.

"Where is John?" My voice sounded foreign, not my own. I have never used such a tone with my wife. "Where is he, Patrice?!" I rushed over and yanked her to face me. I shook her shoulders as a sob heaved out of my mouth. Her eyelids blinked as if in slow motion, but she didn't respond. She lightly tilted her head and looked past me, toward the hallway.

"I put him in the bath. She'd...well I think she left him outside for hours," Becky's grim voice came from behind me. Not turning back, I hurried to the bathroom to find my son. My vision blurred and I fought back the urge to vomit as I took in his bright red skin. The sounds of his cries hadn't registered until that very moment. They echoed, bouncing off the hard surfaces of the bathroom. His tiny fists were clenched tightly as he let out tired weeps, kicking his chubby legs in the water.

"What do I do?" I covered my mouth. It was hard to breathe.

"I can watch her while you take him to the doctor," Becky whispered from the doorway, her arms tucked into her slight frame.

"No. No, we can't take him to the doctor." If they saw what she'd done, how much more dangerous these episodes were becoming, they would take my son away.

"Is the boy alright? I only left him there for a few minutes," Patrice's gravelly voice rumbled from out of sight. An unfamiliar rage coursed through me as I shoved past Becky.

"I was so tired. I fell asleep," she continued, her body wobbled in the narrow hallway. Her hair dripping and clinging to her face.

"He was out there for hours, Patrice! He could have been abducted! He could have...he's BURNED!" I threw my hands up over my head, then froze. My eyes travel from her pale face and down her body that swells in the places I'd only seen happen once before.

"Patrice, are you?" I asked as a crack of thunder shakes the house. Becky sucks in a gasp behind me.

I hired Millie the next week.