Deep in the Darkness by Michael Laimo Read Free Book Online Page A

painkillers she was taking, something that would help her get through the mental aspect of her discomfort. That's the difference between old-world practice and new: Farris, in his seventies, mostly avoided prescribing anti-anxiety or anti-depressive meds for fear of their addictive properties, something he indicated in many of his patient files. Little did Mr. small-town physician know was that half of America chows down Xanax and Zoloft like they're tic tacs.
    Although I knew the medication would help Rosy's thinking patterns (I decided to chalk up her window-tapping outburst as a case of sleepwalking, and prescribed some Ambien to keep her bed-bound), I felt disappointed that there was nothing else I could do for her to make coping a bit easier. She'd have to live with her deformities for the rest of her life, and she'd have to deal with it, otherwise she'd end up in some padded room wearing diapers and swilling on her very own custom pacifier.
    On a different occasion Christine met Rosy and did her best to make nice with her by talking herbal teas, spice candles, and aromatherapy; as it turned out, Rosy had a bit of new age pith in her bones, and Christine took to that just fine, happily discussing the healing properties of jasmine and sandalwood and other essences of the mind. Rosy had mentioned how much she enjoyed children, but Christine thought it best to keep Jessica away, and I agreed. To a five year old, Rosy was the bogeyman. To some adults, too.
    Sometime during the third week I took the afternoon off so that we could tour the elementary school, and get Jessica registered for kindergarten in the fall. When we first arrived there Jessica had spotted an unruly line of older children in the hallway, third-graders I supposed, and casted a silent wary look up at me as if to ask whether she had a choice in this matter. Suddenly, school didn't seem all the fun and games Christine made it out to be.
    We met the elementary school principal, a bald and rotund fellow named Goodwin Clarke, who made a strong point to discuss the rheumatoid arthritis in his hands and how the anti-inflammatory meds gave him the bloodies, something both Christine and I really didn't need to visualize at the moment. Christine did her best to not look at me for fear of bursting out in laughter, and I changed the subject by promising Goodwin an appointment the following Saturday.
    When we arrived home Jimmy Page was eyeing his leash. He ran to the door, then looked at me, then at the door, then at me again. I got the hint and took him for a walk in the back before he started whimpering. Page's first and favorite spot had become the cement bird fountain, and in no time all the weeds around the pedestal were dead. They ought to market the stuff, I thought.
    I made a point to spend some moments between appointments here in the backyard (not much hustle and bustle here in Ashborough, unlike New York where you bounced back and forth between examining rooms like a volleyball), circling about the property, checking out the grass and the weeds and the sea of trees and copses that seemed to go on forever. Regardless of the amount of time, whether it was a few minutes or a half hour, each time out seemed like a small journey, and I would discover something else with the property I didn't know about, simple little things like where the water spigots were or how someone had planted a line of white rose bushes about twelve feet deep into the woods. One Sunday afternoon—soon, I promised myself—I would take a few hours to search these woods. Don't ask me what I expected to find. But since most of my life had been spent on sidewalks and concrete, I thought it'd be fun playing the role of forest explorer.
    The rest of the day was spent in typical Cayle family fashion. Jessica ran about the property with Page, Christine rearranged our things while getting dinner ready, and I painted the hallway and examining room the flat-white color I thought it should be. At one