If only she knew! If only Ba would call!
I'm copping out.
She had to make a decision. If she was ever going to respect herself after this nightmare was over, she would have to get off the fence and stop hoping for someone to decide for her.
She started to sigh but it came out as a sob. She bit her lip to hold back the tears. There was only one choice.
She had to stop Alan.
God, how she ached to give Jeffy a chance at being a normal little boy. But the price… the price.
How could she allow Alan, in his brain-damaged state, to risk further damage, perhaps death, on the chance that he might cure Jeffy's autism? So far the Dat-tay-vao had been used only on physical ills. Who even knew if it could help Jeffy at all?
And if it could, wasn't that the most frightening prospect of all?
In that moment, she faced the gut-wrenching realization that she wasn't afraid for Alan as much as she was afraid for Jeffy and herself. What if Jeffy's autism was suddenly cured and he became a normal, responsive child? What kind of child would he be? What if he loathed her? Or even worse— what if she loathed him? She couldn't bear that. Almost better to have him stay the way he was and still love him than to face the unknown.
Still, her mind was made up: If Alan arrived, she'd stop him, even if it meant physically blocking his way.
She should have felt relieved now that she had finally reached a decision. Why did she feel so defeated?
She took the flashlight and ran upstairs to check on Jeffy. She found him sleeping peacefully despite the storm. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed his curly, sun-bleached hair.
A tear rolled down her cheek, and she felt her resolve weaken, but she took a deep breath and held it until she hurt. Then she let it out, slowly.
"Your day will come, little man," she whispered, and kissed his freckled forehead.
Then she went back downstairs to wait for Alan.
The jostling brought Ba back to consciousness. Flashing red lights glowed dimly through the blur that coated his eyes like thick jelly. As he blinked and his vision cleared, he saw a concrete overhang a few yards above with a sign that read emergency entrance. From below him he heard a clank and felt one firm, final jostle. He realized with a start that he was on a stretcher that had been slid out of an ambulance and had its wheels lowered. He tried to sit up but found straps buckled across his chest. The effort caused a blaze of pain to rip up the back of his neck and explode in his head.
"Let me up," he said in a voice that did not quite sound like his own.
A brusque but gentle hand patted his shoulder. "Take it easy, mac. You'll be okay. We already thought you was dead but you ain't. We'll be unstrapping you in a minute."
He was wheeled up next to a gurney, unstrapped, and moved laterally. Only then did he realize that he was on a wooden backboard. Ba waited until the backboard had been removed, then made his move before any more straps could be fastened around him.
The room swam and a wave of nausea washed over him as he sat up. He clenched his teeth and bit back the bile that welled up in his throat.
"Just a minute there, pal," one of the attendants said. "You better lie down until they get a doctor in here."
"What time is it?" Ba said. The room had righted itself and was holding steady. He realized there was a bandage around his head. There were other people on other gurneys spaced evenly along the walls of the emergency ward, some enclosed in curtains, some open. Activity swirled and eddied around him.
"Ten-seventeen," said the other attendant.
Two hours! Ba slid off the gurney onto his feet. I've lost two hours!
He had to get to Toad Hall, to the Missus!
As he began to walk toward the door to the outer hallway, ignoring the protests from the ambulance attendants, a middle-aged nurse, clipboard in hand, marched up to him.
"And just where do you think you're going?"
Ba looked at her once, then brushed by her. "Please do not stop me. I must leave."
She stood aside and let him pass without saying another word.
He went through the automatic doors and stood there on the curb, his fists clenching and unclenching against his thighs.
He had no car!
A door slammed to his right and he saw an ambulance driver walking away from his rig. The diesel engine was still running.
Before actually making a conscious decision, Ba found himself walking toward the vehicle as the driver passed him and went through the emergency doors. The door was unlocked. Without looking back, Ba seated himself behind the wheel, put it in gear, and pulled out onto the street. Because a right turn would take him out of sight more quickly, Ba turned that way and came upon an arrow pointing straight ahead to 495.
He found the switches for the flashers and the siren and turned them on. With no little sense of satisfaction, he floored the accelerator and watched cars slew out of his way to let him pass. He began to think that he might have a chance to make it to Toad Hall in time after all.
The streets here looked vaguely familiar, yet try as he might, Alan could not remember the name of the town. A number of times he wanted to turn from his path and investigate a side road or follow a tantalizing thread of familiarity to see where it led.
But he found he could not. Whatever was guiding him— driving him—would not allow him to veer from the path toward Jeffy. There was a monumental singularity of purpose within him that had all but taken control.
He turned off the road and walked between two brick gateposts onto an asphalt driveway, then off the driveway and into a stand of willows where he stopped and stood among the drooping leafy branches that swayed like soft bead curtains in the wind. He was glad to stop; he was exhausted. If it were entirely up to him, he'd drop onto the sodden ground and go to sleep.
But it was not up to him. So he stood and waited, facing the huge, dark house across the lawn. Beyond the house he could hear water lapping high and hungry against the docks. The tide was almost in. He didn't know how he knew that, but there was no doubt in his mind. And that was what he seemed to be waiting for—the crest of the tide.
He felt a new sensation, a tension coiling within him, pulsating eagerly, readying to spring. His hands felt warm.
And then he began to walk toward the house.
It was time.
"Jeffy," he said to the darkness.
* * *
Finally, the storm was dying. The lightning was now dim flashes and the thunder only low-pitched rumbles, like an overfed stomach with indigestion.
Thank God! Sylvia thought. Now, if only the lights will come back on…
Phemus began to bark.
Sylvia went to the window that looked out on the driveway, but saw no car. She glanced at her watch and.saw that it was 10:40. Three minutes to high tide. A chill ran over her. Someone was out there in the darkness, moving this way across the lawn toward the house. She wished she could turn on the outside spotlights. At least then she could see him. Not that it really mattered. She could sense his presence.
Alan was coming.
But how could that be? How could he get all the way here from lower Manhattan? It just didn't seem possible. Yet he was out there. She was sure of it.
Flashlight in hand, she took Phemus by the collar and led him back to the utility room where she closed him in with the washer and dryer. As she was moving toward the library, she heard the front door swing open. She stopped for a minute, listening to her heart thudding in her chest. She thought she had locked that door! What if it wasn't Alan? What if it was a burglar—or worse?