Chapter 4 gingerbread girl
Only running fast will work.
After the baby died, Emily started running.At first she would just run to the end of the driveway and stand there, bent over, panting with her hands clutching the tops of her knees; then she would run across the block; then she would run all the way down the hill to Key .There she would get bread or margarine, or maybe a brioche or chocolate pie if she couldn't think of anything to eat.At first, she just walked back, but after a while, she ran all the way back.In the end, she gave up even the snacks.It was harder than she expected.She never realized that sweets could relieve sadness, and it may be because she has become addicted to sweets.Anyway, the cannoli eventually packed up and left.Running is enough.Henry said she was also addicted to running, and she thought maybe he was right.
"What did Dr. Steiner say?" he asked.
"Dr. Steiner said just run and release your endorphins." She hadn't mentioned running to Susan Steiner, and in fact Emily hadn't seen her since Amy's funeral. she.
"She also said I could put it in a prescription if you wanted."
Emily can always fool Henry, even after Amy is dead.We could have another one, and she sat next to him and said that to him as he lay curled up on the bed with tears streaming down the sides of his face.
That remark was a comfort to him, and that was fine.But there would be no more babies, no more carers coming up and saying the baby was motionless and blue in the crib.No more futile CPR, or screaming at 911.The operator on the other end of the line said to her, please lower your volume, ma'am, I can't understand what you're saying.But Henry didn't need to know that, and she was willing to comfort him, at least initially.She believed that comfort, not bread, was the pillar of life.Maybe she could finally find some solace for herself, too.Also, she had already given birth to a child with a birth defect.This is the key.She couldn't risk having a second one.
That's when she started to have a headache.A splitting headache.So she did go to the doctor, but instead of Susan Steiner, she went to their family doctor, Mendez.Mendez prescribed her a drug called Zomig.She took the bus to the family where Mendez visited, and then went to the pharmacy to buy medicine.Afterwards, she jogged home—the pharmacy was two miles away—and when she got home, she felt as stiff as a steel fork implanted from her armpit to the top of her ribs.But she didn't worry about it, because the pain would pass.And she was so exhausted that she felt as if she could sleep for a while.
She did fall asleep—slept all afternoon.In the same bed where Amy was conceived, the same bed that Henry had lain on and cried.When she woke up, she felt shadows in front of her eyes, like ghosts floating in the air, which was definitely a harbinger of the beginning of what she named "Emily's classic headache".She took a new pill, and to her surprise—shockingly—the headache gradually eased, moving first to the back of her head and then disappearing.She felt that there should also be a medicine that could treat the pain of losing a child.
She believes that the limit of self-endurance should be challenged, and that the process of exploration will be long.There is a junior college not too far from home, and there is a cinder track on the campus.She started driving there every morning after Henry went to work.Henry didn't understand her obsession with running.Jogging, no problem—lots of women jogging.To lose four pounds off their ass, or two pounds off their waist, or whatever.But Emily didn't have an extra four pounds to shed.Besides, jogging was no longer enough for her.She had to take a long, fast run.Only running fast will work.
She pulled over at the side of the track and started running until she couldn't run, until her Florida State University sleeveless sweatshirt was drenched front to back.She wobbled and vomited occasionally, from exhaustion.
Henry found out.Someone saw her running alone at eight in the morning and told Henry.The couple discussed the issue.Discussions escalate into arguments that end the marriage.
"It's a hobby," she said.
"Jodi Anderson says you're on the floor. She's afraid you're going to have a heart attack. That's not a hobby, Emily. Addiction isn't enough, it's just obsession."
He looked at her reproachfully.Although it was a little while before she grabbed the book in hand and threw it at him, it was the look in her eyes that did the trick.Blame eyes.She couldn't take it anymore.That look, and that long face, made her think that there was a sheep in the house.I married a Dorset sheep, she thought, and now all he knows is boo boo boo boo boo boo all day long.
But she made another attempt to be rational, even though she knew that what she was justifying was utterly irrational.Since there is magical thinking, of course there can also be magical behavior.For example, run.
"Marathon runners also run to the point where they fall to the ground," she said.
"Are you planning to run a marathon?"
"Maybe." However, her eyes dodged and looked elsewhere.Looking out the window at the driveway.The driveway was calling her.The driveway leads to the sidewalk, which leads to the outside world.
"No," he said, "you're not going to run a marathon. You're not going to."
It occurred to her—it was so obvious that it felt like an epiphany when she realized it—that this was Henry, damn it, that was what he was good at.In the six years of their marriage he had always had the knack for reading her thoughts, feelings, and plans.
I comforted you, she thought—she wasn't angry, just on the verge of it.You were lying on the bed with snot and tears, I comforted you.
"Running when you're in pain is a classic psychological reaction," he said, still matter-of-factly. "It's called avoidance. But baby, if you don't face it, you'll never—"
That's when she grabbed the nearest thing at hand, which happened to be a paperback.She tried to read the book, but couldn't get through, and Henry took over and, judging by the bookmark, was three-quarters of the way through.He even has the same reading taste as a Dorset sheep, she thought.She threw the book at him, hitting him on the shoulder.He widened his eyes, looked at her in shock, and grabbed her.Maybe just want to hug her, who knows?Who really knows what?
If he had been quick enough, he could have grabbed her arm or wrist, or the back of a T-shirt.But the shock delayed his reaction.He missed it, and she was already running, stopping only by the front door to grab the fanny pack on the table.She ran onto the driveway, then the sidewalk.She ran down the hill.For a brief period, she and other mothers pushed prams at the bottom of the hill, but now they avoid her.This time, she wasn't about to stop, or even slow down.Wearing shorts, running shoes, and a T-shirt that read Save the Cheerleaders, Emily ran into the outside world.She tied her fanny pack around her waist and fastened the buckle as she ran down the hill.How does it feel?
Excellent!Wow!
She ran downtown (two miles, twenty-two minutes), didn't stop at a red light, just kept going.At the corner of Main Street and Strand, a convertible Mustang drove up with two boys in it, one whistling at her.Emily gave him a middle finger in return.The boy laughed and applauded her, and the wild horse sped off down the main road.
She didn't have much cash on her.However, she has two credit cards, preferably one of which is an AmEx so she can write travelers cheques.
She realized she didn't want to go home, at least not for a while.The realization made her feel relieved—and maybe a little exile excited—rather than sad.She suspected that perhaps the absence from home was not temporary.
She went to the Morris Hotel to call and decided on a whim to get a room.Can I stay just one night?Can.She handed the Amex card to the front desk.
"Looks like you don't need a bellboy to help you with your luggage,"
The front desk looked at her shorts and T-shirt.
"I'm in a hurry."
"Got it." But that tone showed that he didn't know anything at all.She took the key from the front desk and rushed across the spacious lobby to the elevator, resisting the urge to run.
It sounds like you are crying.
She wants to buy a few clothes—two skirts, two shirts, two pairs of jeans, another pair of shorts—but before she can do her shopping, she has two phone calls: one to Henry and one to her father.Her father was in Tallahassee, and she decided to call him first.She couldn't recall his office number at the motor pool, but she remembered the cell phone number.The phone rang and connected, and from the other end came the sound of an engine.
"Em! How are you?"
This question should have something else to say, but at this moment it has a simple meaning.
"I'm fine, Dad. But I'm at the Morris Hotel now. I think I'm leaving Henry."
"Forever or just a moment?" He didn't sound surprised—he was quick to accept the fact; Emily loved him for that—but the roar of the engine on the other end of the phone subsided and then died away.She guessed that he had entered the office, closed the door, and perhaps picked up a picture of his daughter from the messy desk.
"It's hard to say. But at the moment our relationship is not good."
"what happened?"
"Because of running."
"running?"
She sighed and said, "Not exactly. You know, sometimes what appears to be one thing is really about another thing. Maybe it's about a bunch of things."
"That kid." My father hadn't called her Amy since Sudden Infant Death.When mentioning her now, it is always "that child."
"And my way of coping. It's not what Henry wants. It's just that I suddenly want to stick to my own way."
"Henry is a good man," said my father, "but he sees things differently than we do. No doubt about it."
She waits.
"Is there anything I can do?"
She told him.He said yes.She knew that after listening to her, he would agree.Listening is the most important part, and Rusty Jackson was great at it.He could go from being one of three mechanics at the car pool to perhaps one of the four most important people on the Tallahassee campus (she didn't hear that from him; he wouldn't tell her or anyone else people boast about it), listening is an indispensable skill.
"I'll let Mariette do the cleaning," he said.
"No, Dad. I'll clean."
"I want to do this, it's long overdue for a thorough cleaning. The damn place hasn't been used for about a year. I haven't been to Vermilion much since your mother passed away. Seems like I can do more here .”
Em's mom isn't Debra anymore either, she's just your mom after she died of ovarian cancer.
Em almost asked, are you sure it won't be too much trouble?But you only say that when a stranger offers a favor.Or face another kind of father.
"Where are you going for a run?" he asked.She could hear the smile in his tone. "The beaches are good for running, and the roads are good. You know that. And you don't have to be crowded with other people. Between now and October, Vermilion is the least crowded."
"I go there to think. And — I think — to end the mourning."
"That's great," he said, "Shall I book your flight for you?"
"I can do it myself."
"I know you can do it. Amy, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she said.
"It sounds like you're crying."
"A few tears," she said, wiping her face. "It all happened so suddenly."
Like Amy's death, she could add.Amy died like a little lady without even a beep from the baby detector.Leave quietly, don't slam the door, that's what Em's mother used to tell her when she was a teenager.
"Henry isn't going to pester you at the hotel, is he?"
She hesitated a moment when she heard her father use the word pester, but despite the tears streaming down her face, she couldn't help laughing.
"If you're asking if he's going to come and beat me up...I don't think that's his style."
"When his wife leaves him just to go for a run, a man's style changes."
"Henry doesn't," she said. "He's not the type to cause trouble."
"You've made up your mind? Don't you go back to Tallahassee first?"
She hesitated.She kind of wants to go home, but—
"I need to be alone for a while. Then I can make plans." She repeated, "It's all sudden." Although she felt that the problems between them were not a day or two.Maybe the contradiction was buried in the DNA of this marriage from the beginning.
"Okay. I love you, Amy."
"I love you too, Dad. Thank you." She swallowed. "Thank you."
Henry didn’t look for trouble.Henry didn't even ask where she was calling from.Henry just said, "Maybe it's not just you who need to be alone for a while. Maybe it's better for us."
She resisted the urge to thank him - thanking him for that seemed both normal and ridiculous.Silence may be the best option.What he said next made her happy for her choice.
"Who did you call for help? The old man in the deployment field?"
This time, the impulse she had to control was to ask if he had cried to his mother.But pointing the needle at the wheat awn cannot solve any problems.
Finally, she said, "I'm going to Vermilion Island. My dad has a house there." She hoped her tone was calm.
"Conch House." She could almost hear him snort.A three-room house with no garage was not part of Henry's belief system, just like Ha Ha's Cream Rolls and Sparkling Cakes.
Em said, "I'll call you when I get over there."
There was a long silence on the phone.She imagined him standing in the kitchen, his head leaning against the wall, gripping the microphone so hard that his knuckles turned white, trying to suppress his anger.In the six years they were together, they were happy most of the time after all.She hoped he would get through this, if the problems between them turned out to be what she imagined.
When he spoke again, he sounded calm but tired: "Have you brought your credit card?"
"Take it. Don't worry, I won't overdraw. But I want—" She paused, biting her lip.She also almost referred to their dead daughter as "the kid", which is not the right term.Maybe for her father, but not for her.She starts all over again.
"Amy's education money, I want my half," she said, "it might not be much, but—"
"More than you think," he said, sounding irritated again.They started putting the money together when they were trying to have a baby, not after Amy was born, or even after Emily was pregnant.The process of trying to conceive lasted four years, and when they started discussing treatment or adoption, Emily finally became pregnant.
"Those investments can't just be described as good returns, they are blessed by God-especially software stocks. The time to enter the market is good, and the exit is also a golden time. Emily, you don't want to kill the chicken and get the egg."
He came again and told her what she wanted to do.
"I'll let you know when the address is fixed," she said. "Do whatever you want with your half, but write a check for my half."
"You're still running," he said.Although his professional, onlooker tone made her wish he was around to drop another book on him, she remained silent.
Finally he sighed and said, "Look, Em, I'm going away for a few hours. Come back and get your clothes or whatever you want. I'm going to put some money on the dresser."
For a moment, she wavered.But then it occurred to her that leaving money on the dresser was what men did when they went to whores.
"No," she said, "I want a fresh start."
"Em." Another long pause.She guessed he was trying to control his emotions, and the thought brought tears to her eyes again, "Are we done with that, girl?"
"I don't know," she tried to keep her voice from shaking. "It's too early to say anything."
"If I had to guess," he said, "I would guess, yes. Today proved two things. First, a healthy woman can run great distances."
"I'll call you," she said.
"Second, for a marriage, the living child is the glue, and the dead child is the vitriol."
It's the most hurtful thing Henry has ever said, because he's dismissing Amy's existence as an ugly metaphor.Em can't do it, and she doesn't think she'll ever be able to.
"I'll call you." With that, she hung up the phone.
Vermilion Island is smoggy and deserted.
In this way, Emily Owensby ran to the end of the driveway, to the Key's at the bottom of the hill, and from there to the track at South Cleveland Junior College, and finally to the Morris Hotel.She ran out of marriage, as decisive as a woman throwing off her slippers when she made up her mind to leave everything behind and run forward.She then ran to Fort Myers, Florida (with the help of Southwest Airlines), from where she rented a car and drove south to Naples.In the scorching June sun, Vermilion Island is smoky but deserted.It was two miles along the coast from the drawbridge to Father's Drive.At the end of the driveway is the Conch House, which has a very simple appearance. Except for the roof and the shutters, which are painted blue, the whole is not painted. Even the painted windows are mottled by the sea breeze, but the house is air-conditioned and furnished very comfortably.
She turned off the engine of the Nissan Avis, and the only sound was the sound of the waves on the empty shore.Nearby, in an unknown direction, a frightened bird kept chirping, ah-ow!Ah-ow!Em bowed her head, leaning on the steering wheel and crying for five minutes, releasing, or rather, trying to release, all the stress and fear she had endured for the past six months.No one could hear it except the bird, which kept yelling.Finally crying enough, she stripped off her T-shirt to a plain gray sports bra, wiped the snot, sweat, and tears from her face, and wiped her chest clean.Then she walked toward the house, her sneakers trampling shells and coral fragments beneath her feet.On the grass there is a statue of a dwarf in a red hat, the hat has faded, but the face still looks smug and beaming.She bent down and fished out from under the statue a box of Sucriz lozenges, with the key hidden inside.Just then, she realized that she hadn't had a headache for more than a week.
Fortunately, otherwise Zomig is thousands of miles away, and I really don't know what to do.
Fifteen minutes later, she was running down the beach in shorts and one of Dad's old shirts.
For the next three weeks, her life couldn't have been easier.Coffee and orange juice for breakfast, a big green salad for lunch, and “Stoffer’s Lean Cuisine” for dinner, usually mac and cheese and macaroni, or sliced beef boiled in a bag on toast—my father mocked it as a cobblestone dish. A piece of shit.These foods provide her with enough carbohydrates.In the morning, when the weather was cool, she ran barefoot on the beach, very close to the water, where the sand was moist and tight, with few shells.It was hot and rainy in the afternoon, and she would go out onto the road, which was mostly shaded by trees.Sometimes, she gets drenched in the rain.In such cases, she runs in the rain, always smiling, sometimes even laughing out loud.When she got home, she undressed as soon as she stepped into the living room, then threw the soaked clothes into the washing machine—it was conveniently three steps from the shower head.
At first, she ran two miles on the beach and one mile on the road.After three weeks, it becomes three miles on the beach and two miles on the road.Rusty Jackson took inspiration from an old song and called his vacation home The Grass Cottage.It is located on the northernmost tip of Vermilion Island and has nothing in common with other buildings on the island; while other houses are owned by the rich and super rich, the three extremely luxurious mansions standing on the southernmost tip of the island belong to the rich. Guy beyond imagination.When Em runs on the road, he occasionally sees trucks carrying playground maintenance equipment passing by, but few cars.The houses she saw along the way were closed and driveways locked until at least October, when homeowners began to return.She began to make names for the houses in her head: the one with the columns was called Tara, the one with the tall iron fence in front was called the Federation Club, the tall building behind the ugly gray concrete walls was called the Bunker.There was another, smaller one, mostly shaded by palmflowers and palms, which Emily called the Fishing House—and she wondered if the people who lived there during the high season lived on fishing crackers.
On the beach, she sometimes bumps into Turtle Watch volunteers, and soon she's saying hello to them by name, and they're yelling "Hi, Em!" as she runs past. Besides, she basically didn't see anyone else.Only once did a helicopter fly by, 1 Tara, the estate of the heroine Scarlett; a passenger on the Club Fed—a young man—leaped out and waved to her. Em Also waving, her face safely hidden under a Florida State University Niles team hat.
She shopped at the Pabris Mart five miles north on Route 41.Usually, on the drive back, she would stop by Poppy Trickett's used bookstore.The store, while much larger than my father's vacation home, was still a conch house at heart.There she bought several paperbacks by Raymond Chandler and Ed McBain.It was old, with blackened edges and yellowed pages, and smelled of sweet nostalgia, just like the Ford Woody station wagon she had seen one day.The car, with two garden chairs strapped to its roof and a battered surfboard peeking out of its trunk, wobbled along Route 41.There's no need to buy John Dan McDonald's; Dad's orange bookshelves have a whole set on them.
By the end of July, she was already running six miles a day, sometimes seven.Her breasts were down to two bumps and her hips were barely there; another achievement was filling her father's two empty bookshelves with titles like City of the Dead and Six Bad Things.At night, the TV is never on, not even the weather forecast.My father's old computer was also always black.She didn't buy a newspaper either.
Her father called her the next day, and after she said she would notify him when she was mentally prepared, she stopped asking repeatedly if she needed him to spend time with her.At the same time, she told her father that she wasn't planning to kill herself (which was true), that she wasn't even depressed (which was not true), and that she was eating regularly.That was enough for Rusty.Father and daughter have been honest with each other, and she also knows that summer is his busy season—everything the students can't do while they're at school (which he likes to call a factory, too) has to run from June 15th to September Finish it within 15 days, because during this time the school only has summer courses and some academic conferences sponsored by the school.
Besides, my father had a girlfriend, and her name was Melody.Em didn't like going to them—because she thought it was weird—but she knew that Melody made her father happy, so she greeted her on the phone, too.Very well, my father's answer never changes.Plum looks as good as a peach.
She called Henry once, and Henry called her once.It was night when he called, and Em was pretty sure he was drunk.He asks again if they're over, and she tells him again that she's not sure, but she's lying.Most likely lying.
At night, she slept deeply, as if in a coma.At first, she would dream - reliving the morning they found Amy dead over and over again.In some dreams, Amy was blackened like a rotten strawberry.In other dreams—these were worse—Amy was having trouble breathing, and it was her mouth-to-mouth rescue that saved her daughter.The reason these dreams were worse was that when she woke up, she would find that Amy was still dead.One night when there was a storm of thunder and lightning, she awoke from such a dream, slid out of bed, and sat on the floor naked, crying.Her elbows were on her knees, her face was in her hands.Outside the window, lightning flashed across the bay sky, and blue light flickered on and off the wall.
As she ran farther—to the limit of her endurance—the dreams no longer reappeared, or dreams she no longer remembered having had.When she woke up, she couldn't say how energetic her body was, but she gradually felt a recovery from the injury from the inside out.While each day is essentially the same as the previous, each day also slowly resembles a new beginning—a new beginning of its own—rather than a continuation of the old.She woke up one morning and finally realized that Amy's death was starting to feel like something that had happened rather than something that was happening.
She felt she was ready to meet her father--bring Melody with him if he wanted to, she'd prepare them a decent dinner, and they could spend the night here too is his).Then, she began to think about how to continue her real life, the life on the other side of the suspension bridge that is coming soon: some things she wants to keep, and some things she wants to abandon.
Soon, she thought, that call would be made.a week later.Up to two weeks.Not yet, but almost.almost.
Not a nice guy.
One afternoon not long into August, Dekay Hollis told her that she had company on the island.He never said the full name, it was the island.
De Kai's face was full of vicissitudes, and he couldn't tell whether he was fifty or seventy.He was tall and thin, and wore a battered straw hat that looked like an upside-down bowl.From seven in the morning until seven in the evening, he managed the drawbridge between Vermillion and the mainland.This is Monday to Friday.On weekends, "children" are on duty (it is said that they are children, and they are also thirty years old).Sometimes, when Em ran to the drawbridge and saw "The Kid" sitting in the old wicker chair outside the concierge instead of Deke, reading Maxim or Popular Mechanics instead of The New York Times, he would realize with astonishment that It's Saturday again so soon.
But this afternoon, De Kai was on duty.The passage between Vermilion and the mainland—Dekey called it a "throat" (she guessed he meant "throat")—was equally dark and desolate in the gloom.On the railing near the bay, a heron stood quietly, not knowing whether it was thinking or hunting for an opportunity.
"Companion?" Em replied puzzled. "I don't have any company."
"I didn't mean that. Pickering is back. Lives at 366, it seems? With one of his 'nieces.'"
When talking about "niece", De Kai rolled his eyes.His blue eyes are very pale, almost colorless.
"I didn't see anybody," Em said.
"It's possible," he said, "that they drove by in that big red Mercedes about an hour ago, and you were probably still tying your shoes." He leaned forward, the newspaper in front of him being It was on his fleshless belly.She saw half-done crossword puzzles in the newspaper.
"Different 'nieces' every summer, all young ladies." He paused. "Sometimes two, one in August, one in September."
"I don't know him," Em said, "and I didn't see any red Mercedes." She didn't know which house 366 was.Noticed that the houses were real, but who would look at the mailbox number?Of course, number 219 is an exception, because there is a row of woodcut birds on the mailbox. (Naturally, the house behind the mailbox was named Bird Park by Em.)
"It doesn't matter." Dekai said.This time he didn't roll his eyes, but pulled the corners of his mouth, as if there was something unpalatable in his mouth. "He brought them here in a Mercedes-Benz, and then took them back to St. Petersburg on his boat. It's a big white yacht called a game bed. It just passed here this morning." The corner of his mouth twitched again. pull.There was a faint sound of thunder in the distance. "The nieces visited the house, took a cruise in the ocean, and then we didn't see Pickering until next January when Chicago got too cold."
Having said that, Em felt that while running on the beach this morning, she seemed to see a white yacht tethered to the shore, but she was not sure.
"In two days—maybe a week—he'll send a couple of guys out on errands, and one of them will drive the Mercedes back to where it was put away, no one knows where. Around the private airport in Naples, I guess."
"He must be rich," said Em.This was the longest chat she had with De Kai, and she was very happy, but she still started to run in place.Partly because she didn't want her legs to go stiff, partly because her body was calling her to run.
"As rich as Scrooge McDuck, but I feel that Pickering's money is spent. Uncle Scrooge is not as good at spending as he is. I heard he made his fortune doing computers." His His eyes rolled, "Aren't there all rich people?"
"Maybe." She was still running in place.At this moment, the distant thunder sounded clearer and louder.
"I know you're in a hurry to leave, but I'm telling you this for a reason." Dekai said.He closed the newspaper, put it on the old wicker chair aside, and pressed the coffee cup on it.
"I don't usually gossip about the people on this island - most of them are rich and there's no end to bad talk - but I like you, Amy. You're not very nice But you're not snobby at all. I like your father too, and we have a drink together once in a while."
"Thank you," she was a little moved, then suddenly thought of something, and asked him with a smile, "Did my father ask you to look at me?"
Dekai shook his head.
"No. Never will. It's not R.J.'s style. But he'll remind you like I did—Jim, Pickering isn't a nice guy. If I were you, I'd stay away from him. If he invites you into the house for a drink with his new 'niece', or even just a cup of coffee, remember to say no. If he asks you to go for a sea ride with him, say no."
"I'm not interested in driving anywhere," she said.
She's interested in doing what she's supposed to do on Vermilion Island.She felt almost done.
"I'd better get back before it rains."
"I think it won't be played until five o'clock at the earliest," Dekai said, "but even if I'm wrong, you're fine."
She laughed again and replied, "I think so too. Women don't melt in the rain like men think. I'll tell Dad you say hello."
"Okay." He stooped for the newspaper, stopped again, and looked up from behind his ridiculous hat. "By the way, how are you doing?"
"It's better," she said, "it's getting better every day."
She turned around and ran towards the thatched hut, raising her hand as a farewell to De Kai behind her.At this time, the heron that had been sitting on the railing flew past her with a fish in its beak.
No. 366 turned out to be a bunker.For the first time since she had been in Vermilion, the door was ajar.Or had it been opened when she passed here, running towards the bridge?She can't remember.She was used to wearing a watch to keep time, a clunky thing with huge numbers on it.Most likely she was looking at her watch the last time she passed by.
She was going to run without slowing down—the thunder was getting closer—but instead of a thousand-dollar suede top from Jill Anderson, she was wearing a sportswear outfit: Shorts and a Nike T-shirt.And, what did she say to De Kai?Women don't melt in the rain.So she slowed down, turned around, and took a sneak peek, purely out of curiosity.
She thought the Mercedes parked in the yard was an SL450, because her father had a similar one, but his was very old, and this one was brand new.The car was the color of sugar apples, and it shone brightly even in the dim sky.The trunk is open.A strand of blond hair hangs from it.There is blood in the hair.
Did Dekai ever say that the girl with Pickering was blonde?This was the first question that popped into her mind, and then she was taken aback by herself, why didn't she feel surprised?This seems like a perfectly reasonable question, and the answer is that De Kay didn't say that.He just rolled his eyes and said it was a young girl, his "niece."
Thunder rumbled, almost overhead.There was nothing in the yard but the car (and the blonde in the trunk).The whole house looked deserted too, more of a bunker than ever, not even softened by the swaying palm trees around it.It was too big, too barren, too gray, and an ugly house.
Em heard a faint groan.Without thinking, she rushed through the door, ran to the open trunk, and looked inside.呻吟声不是里面的女孩发出的。她的双眼是睁着的，但身上不知被捅了多少刀，喉咙上的一刀从左耳划到右耳。
埃姆盯着后备箱里的女孩，吓得忘了活动也忘了呼吸。她突然想，也许里面的女孩是假的，只是拍电影用的替身而已。虽然理智告诉她那是胡扯，但头脑的一部分却拼命附和，想为眼前的一切寻找合理的解释，甚至编造故事来支持这个想法。德凯不喜欢皮克林，也不喜欢他对女性同伴的选择对吧？好吧，皮克林也不喜欢德凯！很可能就是个恶作剧而已。稍后，皮克林会故意打开后备箱，从吊桥驶过，人偶的金发随风飘舞，然后——
可是，后备箱里传来了味道，血和粪便的味道。埃姆伸出手，迎着女孩圆睁的眼睛，碰了碰她的面颊。很冷，但那是皮肤。上帝啊，那是人的皮肤。
身后传来一个响声。脚步声。她想转身，却被什么东西砸在头上。她没感到痛苦，只看到眼前炫目的白色。接着，整个世界陷入了黑暗。
似乎他要同她玩“可怕的小老鼠”。
醒来时，她发现自己被布基胶带捆在了一间大厨房的椅子上。厨房里摆满了可怕的金属器具：水池、冰箱、洗碗机，还有一台看上去供饭店专用的烤箱。疼痛从她的后脑勺缓缓地、长长地传到前面，每阵疼痛似乎都在呼喊快逃！run away!
站在水池边的是一个高瘦男人，身穿卡其短裤和一件旧艾索德高尔夫球衫。整个厨房的金属质地反射出冷酷的光芒，使埃姆可以看到那男人眼角深深的鱼尾纹和精干短发发际线上的斑斑灰白。她判断他有五十岁。他正在水池里洗胳膊，胳膊上似乎有处刺伤，就在手肘下方。
突然，他转过头来，眼神如野兽般犀利，让她的心猛地一沉。他的眼睛也是蓝色，但比德凯·霍利斯的有神得多。从他的蓝眼睛里，埃姆看不到任何正常的神智，这让她的心更加冰冷。地板上——和外面一样，地板也是难看的灰色，只不过不是水泥，而是铺了瓷砖——有一长条深色滑腻、宽约九英寸的污痕，埃姆觉得可能是血。眼前的情形很容易让她联想到，说不定那是皮克林拽着金发女孩的脚把她向不可知的目的地拖去时，她的头发在地上留下的。
“你醒了，”他说，“好极了。很棒。你认为我想杀她？我不想杀她。她把一把刀藏在该死的袜筒里了！我不过是在她胳膊上拧了一把，仅此而已。”他似乎考虑了一下，一边用一叠纸巾捂住手肘下方带血的深色刀口，“好吧，还有乳头。那又怎么样呢，每个姑娘都有心理准备吧。或者说该有。这就叫前戏。或者，对那丫头来说，叫全戏。”
说到“前戏”和“全戏”时，他每次都用食指和中指摆个引用符。在埃姆看来，他那样子像是要玩“可怕的小老鼠”。他看上去还很疯狂。事实上，他的精神状态毫无疑问就是那样。头顶响起了雷声，像是一堆家具轰然倒下。埃姆跳了一下——当然，绑在厨房的餐椅上，她也跳不起来——但站在双槽不锈钢水池边的男人并没理会她发出的声音，好像根本没听见。
他向外努着下唇。
“于是我从她手上把刀夺了下来，然后我失去了控制。这点我承认。人们认为我是冷静先生，我也努力让自己配得上这个称号。的确如此。我努力了。但任何人都有可能失控。人们没有意识到这一点。任何人都有可能。在一定的环境下。”
大雨倾盆而下，就像上帝拉下了他私人洗手间的冲水绳。
“谁有可能知道你在这里？”
“很多人。”这个答案来得毫不犹豫。
一转眼，他就如闪电般冲到了厨房的这一边。上一秒他还在水池边，这一秒就已经重重地在她脸上打了一拳，打得她眼前顿时冒起了金星，只看到满屋都是亮点，后面还像彗星般拖着刺眼的尾巴。她的头朝一边歪去，头发盖住了半边脸，她能感到血开始往嘴里流。她的下唇破裂了，是牙齿割破了嘴唇的内侧，而且割得很深，感觉上几乎是割透了。屋外，大雨哗哗地下着。还下着雨，我就要死了，埃姆想。但她并不真的相信。也许大祸临头时，没有人真的相信。
“谁知道？”他弯下腰，冲着她的脸吼道。
“很多人。”她重复了一遍，但听上去像是“横多人”，因为她的下嘴唇肿了。她感觉到一小股血正沿着她的下巴流下来。可是，尽管又疼又怕，她的脑子却并没有糊涂。她知道，活下去的唯一希望就是让这个人相信，要是杀了她就会被捉。当然，就算他放她走，也一样可能会被捉，但那个问题待她稍后再处理。一次一个噩梦就够了。
“横多人！”她轻蔑地又说了一次。
他又闪身退回水池边，回来时，手里拿了一把刀。不大，很有可能就是死去的女孩从袜筒里拿出来的那把。他把刀尖抵在埃姆的下眼皮上，往下一按。就在那时，她的膀胱失控了，一瞬间，尿液喷涌而出。
皮克林的脸一时间被厌恶的表情绷紧，但同时又似乎高兴起来。埃姆的脑子尚有空间好奇一个人怎么能同时拥有这样两种截然相反的情绪。他后退了半步，但刀尖丝毫未动。它仍然在她的皮肤上微颤，向下拉扯她下眼皮的同时也在轻轻地把她的眼珠向上顶。
“很好，”他说，“又要清理一个烂摊子。出乎我的意料。真没想到。就像人说的，外面总比里面有空儿。是那么说的。”
他竟然短促而尖利地笑了一声。接着他又探身向前，犀利的蓝眼睛瞪着她淡褐色的眼睛，“告诉我一个知道你在这里的人。不要犹豫。不要犹豫。只要你一犹豫，我就知道你在撒谎，我会马上把你的眼球挖出来扔到水池里去。我说到做到。所以，告诉我。说。”
“德凯·霍利斯，”她说。她知道自己在胡扯，不负责任地胡扯，但这真的只是下意识的反应。她不想失去那只眼睛。
“还有谁？”
她一时想不起任何名字——她的头脑犹如万马奔腾，却又一片空白——而她相信他的话，犹豫一下就会失去左眼。“没有别人，你满意了吗？”她哭喊着。德凯肯定就够了。一个人就够了，除非他是个疯子。
他把刀拿开，尽管外围视力没有立刻恢复，她也能感觉到有一颗小血珠从眼角冒了出来。可她不在乎，还能有外围视力她已经很高兴了。
“好，”皮克林说，“好，好，很好，好。”他又走到水池边，把小刀扔进去。她开始觉得放心了一点。然而，他打开水池边的一个抽屉，拿出一把更大的、又长又尖的切肉刀。
“好。”他又回到她身边。她没在他身上看到血，一点都没有。how can that be possible?她到底昏迷了多久？
“好，好。”他用没拿刀的那只手挠了挠那头看上去花了不少冤枉钱打理的短发，手拿开，头发立刻就归了原位。“谁是德凯·霍利斯？”
“吊桥看管员，”她声音颤抖着说，“我们谈到了你。所以我才停下来朝里看。”
她突发灵感。
“他看到那女孩了！你侄女，他是这样叫她的！”
“是，是，女孩们通常坐船回去，他也只知道这么多。他就知道这么多。人们从来就这么爱管闲事！你的车呢？马上回答我，否则你会享受到新开发的、特别的乳房切除术。快速，但绝非毫无痛苦。”
“小草屋！”这是她唯一能想起的答案。
"what is that?"
“岛另一端的海螺屋，是我父亲的。”她再一次灵感进发，“他也知道我在这里！”
“是的，是的。”皮克林似乎对此不感兴趣，“是的，好吧。你是说你住在这里？”
"yes……"
他低头看了一眼她那条已经变成深蓝色的短裤。
“出来跑步，是不是？”
她没回答，但皮克林似乎并不在意。
“是，你是个长跑健将，绝对是。看看这两条腿。”
出人意料地，他深深弯下腰去——像是给皇室行鞠躬礼般——响亮地在她左边的大腿上亲了一下，就在短裤的裤边上方。当他直起身后，她看到他裤子的前面突了出来。Not good.
“你跑前，你跑后。”他把切肉刀在空中划了一个又一个弧，像是乐队指挥挥舞指挥棒一样。这动作有催眠效果。外面，大雨继续瓢泼。可能还会下个四十分钟，说不定一小时，然后太阳会出来。埃姆不知道自己还能不能活着看到太阳。她认为不能。可这一切仍然很难让人相信。事实上，是不可能相信。
“你跑前，你跑后。跑前跑后。有时你和戴草帽的老头一起打发点时间，没和别人在一起过。”她害怕了，但还没有怕到意识不到他在自言自语。“对。没和别人在一起过。因为这里没有别人。要是你下午跑步时被在这儿种树割草的工人们看见了，他们会记得吗？会吗？”
他手中的刀刃来回轻点着。他看着刀尖，像是它能告诉他答案似的。
“不，”他说，“他们不会记得。我来告诉你为什么。因为在他们看来，你不过是另一个吃饱了撑着、玩命健身的富妞儿。这种人到处都有，每天都能看到。健康强迫症。恨不得他们不要挡道。不跑步的话，就骑车。戴着那些像罐子一样傻不溜秋的小头盔。明白了吗？明白了。好吧，现在祈祷吧，珍小姐，不过要快点。我赶时间。很急，很急。”
他把刀举到了肩膀的高度。她看到他绷紧了嘴唇，准备好进行致命的一击。对埃姆来说，世界突然变得清晰了；所有的一切都明白无误。她想：我来了，艾米。接着，也许是一句她在ESPN频道看来的台词荒谬地钻了进来：等着我，孩子。但他却停下了。他看看四周，那样子完全像是突然听到有人说话。
“是的。”他说。接着，“嗯？”接下来，“是。”厨房中间有个贴了富美家塑胶贴面的食品加工台。他砰的一声把刀扔在上面，而没有刺人埃米莉的身体。
他说：“老实坐在那儿。我不会杀你的。我改变主意了。一个人是可以改变主意的。除了胳膊被刺了一刀，我从妮可身上什么都没得到。”
加工台上有一卷快用光的布基胶带，他把胶带拿起来。片刻之后，他已经跪在她身前，后脑和裸露的脖颈暴露在她眼前。在一个更好的世界里——一个更公正的世界里——她应该有机会攥紧双手，往那一小片裸露而脆弱的地方狠狠砸上一拳。可现实中，她的双手白手腕处被绑在椅子沉重的枫木扶手上。上半身则从胸以下绑在了椅背上，像是穿上了厚厚的束胸衣。双腿的膝盖、小腿上部、小腿下部和脚踝处被绑在了椅子腿上。他做得非常彻底。
而椅腿又被胶带固定在了地上，现在，他正在用新的胶带加固，先是在她身前，接着是身后。用完所有的胶带后，他也完工了。他站起身，把空的纸轴丢到加工台上。
“不错，”他说，“好，都弄好了。你在那里等着。”不知他觉得哪里可笑，竟仰着头，又发出几声短促的、野兽般的笑声。“别无聊得跑掉了，好不好？我去处理你那位多管闲事的老朋友，趁着还在下雨。”
这次，他冲到一扇门前，打开后埃米莉才知道那是个衣柜。他从里面拽出一件黄雨衣。“我就知道放在这儿了。每个人都信赖穿雨衣的人，我也不知道为什么。不过是又一个难以解释的事实。好吧，姑娘，好好坐着。”他又爆发出一阵狂笑，活像一条愤怒的狮子狗在咆哮，然后就消失了。
还是九点十五分。
前门被砰的一声摔上后，埃姆知道他是真的离开了。随着眼前异常明亮的世界逐渐变成灰色，她意识到自己是要晕过去了。但她不能晕。如果死后真的另有一个世界，而她最后要在那里见到父亲，她有何脸面向鲁斯蒂·杰克逊解释，她生命的最后一段时间是在昏迷中度过的呢？他会对她感到失望的。即使他们在天堂相遇，站在没入脚踝的云朵里，天使围绕在身边演奏着音乐，他也会为她因昏迷而浪费了唯一的机会而失望。
埃姆故意把破裂的下唇放在牙齿边……狠狠一咬，血流了出来，世界又恢复了明亮，屋外的风声和雨声也大了起来，像是某种奇怪的音乐。
她有多少时间？从碉堡到吊桥有四分之一英里。皮克林穿了雨衣，而且没听到奔驰车发动的声音，所以她推测他应该是步行去的。她知道，因为打雷下雨，就算他发动了车子，屋里也未必听得到，但她就是不相信他会开车。德凯·霍利斯认得那辆红色的奔驰，而且不喜欢车的主人。
埃米莉相信，皮克林也知道那一点。皮克林是个疯子——有时他会自言自语，有时却和只有他自己才能看到、携手犯下罪恶的隐形同伙说话——但他并不愚蠢。当然，德凯也不蠢。可是，在桥边的那间小屋里，他是独自一人的。没有车路过，也没有船只等着过去。在这样的大雨中，什么人都不会有。
而且，他老了。
“我大概有十五分钟，”她对着空无一人的房间说，也许是对着地板上的血迹说。至少，他没有堵上她的嘴。何必麻烦呢？反正，在这个丑陋、封闭的水泥碉堡里，没有人会听到她的尖叫。她想，就算她站在路中央，扯破了喉咙喊救命，仍然不会有人听到。现在，就连打理球场的墨西哥工人们都会暂停露天的工作，躲在卡车的驾驶室里抽烟喝咖啡。
“最多十五分钟。”
是的，很可能。然后，皮克林就会回来，强暴她，就像他原先打算强暴妮可那样。再之后，他会杀了他，就像他已经杀掉妮可那样。妮可和其他多少个“侄女”？埃姆不知道，但她有强烈的感觉这不是——若用鲁斯蒂·杰克逊的话说——他第一次登台竞技。
fifteen minutes.也许只有十分钟。她低头看看自己的脚。它们没有被胶带贴在地上，但椅脚是被固定住的。but……
你是个长跑健将；你当然是。看看这双腿。
这是一双好腿，没错，而且她不需要任何人去亲吻它们来让她意识到这一点，尤其是皮克林这样的疯子。她不知道，以审美的眼光来看的话它们好不好，但若是以实用的标准来衡量，它们是够格了。自从她和亨利发现艾米死在婴儿床里的那个早晨以来，这双腿带着她跑了很长的路。显然，皮克林对布基胶带的力量很有信心，也许他在好几部电影里看到过变态杀人狂们使用过胶带，而他的“侄女”中也没有一个人让他怀疑过它的有效性。或许是因为他根本没有给过她们机会，也许是因为她们太害怕了。可是，说不定……特别是在这样一个雨天，在一间没开空调、潮湿得甚至能闻到霉味的房间里。
埃姆尽力向前探身，开始慢慢地绷紧大腿和小腿的肌肉：被那个疯子夸奖的长跑健将的肌肉。起初只能活动一点点，后来能抬起一半。接近完全绷紧时，她已经快失去希望了，然而就在那时，她听到了胶带拉扯的声音。起先很轻微，轻得让她怀疑不过是自己的幻听，但声音逐渐地变大。胶带是一层层十字交叉反复捆绑的，无比牢固，但它仍然在脱离地面。然而，是缓慢的。亲爱的上帝，如此缓慢。
她放松身体，深吸了一口气，汗水从她的前额、腋窝和前胸冒出来。她本想立刻再用力，但在南克利夫兰专科学校跑道上积累的经验告诉她，必须等待她那颗狂跳的心脏把乳酸从肌肉中压出去。否则，下一次的力量将会减弱，成功的可能性会更小。可是，这太艰难了。等待太艰难了。不知道他到底走了多久。墙上有台挂钟——不锈钢材质的旭日型钟表（就跟这间可怕而冷酷的房间里的其他摆设一样，唯一的例外就是她被绑在上面的那把红色枫木椅子）——但它在九点十五分上停住了。很可能是电池问题，它的电池寿命已尽。
她试着在数到三十（每个数字之后再加上一个快乐的梅齐）之前保持不动，但只坚持到十七，便又鼓足全力继续使劲。这次，胶带立刻发出了拉扯的声音，而且更响了。她感觉到椅子开始抬起来了。只是一点点，但毫无疑问地抬起来了。
埃姆绷直了身体，头向后仰着，露出了牙齿，肿胀的下唇再次涌出鲜血，顺着下巴流下来，脖子上的青筋都暴了出来。拉扯声还在变大，突然，她听到轻微的断裂声。
同时，炙热的疼痛感包围了她右边的小腿，肌肉顿时僵硬了。埃姆忍住疼，仍然继续用力——毕竟，赌注太大了，赌上的是她的生命——但很快，她又喘着粗气在自己的枷锁内放松下来，再次开始数数。
“一，快乐的梅齐。二，快乐的梅齐。三……”
之所以要等待，是因为很可能她可以把椅子从地板上拽起来，不管小腿有多么吃紧。她几乎确定自己可以。可是，如果付出右小腿肌肉痉挛的代价（以前曾碰到过这种情况；有几次十分厉害，腿上的肌肉硬得跟石头一样），她会得不偿失地浪费更多的时间。而结果必定是，她仍然被绑在那把该死的椅子上。粘在那把该死的椅子上。
尽管知道墙上的钟停了，她仍然看了看。条件反射罢了。还是九点十五分。他到吊桥了吗？她突发奇想：德凯会拉响警报，把他吓跑。那样的事情有可能发生吗？她认为可能。她想，皮克林就像土狼，只有在确定自己占上风时才穷凶极恶。而且，很可能也像土狼，根本无法想象自己不占上风的时候。
She pricked up her ears.她听到了雷声和丝毫没有减弱的雨声，而吊桥门房方向却没有如她希望的那样响起警报。
她再次试着把椅子拖离地面，而当它突然挣脱束缚后，她差点弹出去，把脸撞到炉子上。她踉跄、摇晃，几乎要摔倒，最后是把背靠在厨房中间的富美家贴面的工作台上才保持住平衡。现在，她的心跳快得几乎没有间歇，胸腔和脖子上部、下颚之下的地方简直嗡嗡作响。万一真的摔倒了，她就会像个壳着地的乌龟，再也不会有翻身的机会。
我很好，她想，没发生那样的事。
No.但她仍然可以看到自己躺在地上，画面清晰得可怕。躺在地上，只有妮可头发留下的那摊血迹和她做伴。躺在地上，等着皮克林回来，玩弄完后再结束她的生命。
他什么时候回来？再过七分钟？
five minutes?还是只有三分钟？
她又看了看钟。还是九点十五分。她像个背上长了把椅子的女人，在加工台旁蜷缩着身体，大口呼吸空气。加工台上就有皮克林扔下的那把切肉刀，但她的双手都被绑在椅子上，无法够到。而就算她够到了又怎么样呢？还不是弯着腰，手里拿着刀，傻呆呆地站在那里？拿着刀，也够不着想割的东西。
她看着炉子，心想是不是有办法打开一个灶头。要是能做到的话，或许……
她的眼前又浮现出另一个可怕的画面：本想要烧断胶带，却在灶头上点着了身上的衣服。不能冒这个险。如果有人给她几片药（或者甚至是往她脑袋上开一枪）来摆脱可能到来的强暴、折磨和死亡——很可能是缓慢的死亡，之前有难以言表的痛苦和伤害——也许她就会无视父亲不赞同的声音（“永远别放弃，埃米，转机总是就在下一秒”），就此放弃了。但是冒着上半身三度烧伤的危险？半身烧焦地躺在地上，等着皮克林回来，祈祷他大发慈悲结束自己悲惨的命运？
No.不能那样做。但还有什么选择？她能感觉到时间在飞跑，飞跑。墙上的钟还是九点十五分，但雨声似乎减弱了一些。她的心中顿时充满了恐惧。她努力把它压下去。恐慌会要了她的命。
刀，不可行；炉子，不愿用。还有什么选择？
答案很明显。只剩下椅子。厨房里没有其他椅子，只有三把像吧台凳一样的高椅。她想，这把肯定是他从餐厅里搬来的，她希望自己永远也不要见到那个地方。他是不是曾经把其他女人——其他的“侄女们”——绑在餐桌旁沉重的红色枫木椅上呢？也许这一把上就曾绑过。内心的声音告诉她，自己的直觉没有错。而他对这把椅子的牢固性有足够的信心，即使它只是木头，不是金属。一次有用就会次次有用；她肯定他的思路也像土狼一样。
她必须冲破禁锢她的监狱，这是唯一的方法，而她只有几分钟。
很可能会疼的。
她靠近加工台的中间，但案台稍微突出一些，形成一个像盖子似的平面，使她觉得往上面撞并不可行。她并不想移动——她害怕摔倒变成乌龟——但又确实需要比那个突出的盖子更宽的平面。于是，她开始往冰箱的方向挪。冰箱同样是不锈钢材质的……而且体积庞大，没什么比那个更适合冲撞的了。
她的后背、臀部和双腿驮着椅子向冰箱进发，速度慢得令她心焦。感觉就像背上绑了一个量身定做的古怪棺材似的。而万一她跌倒，那也的确会成为她的棺材。或者，等房子的主人回来时，她仍然在毫无成果地把它往那位厨房助手的前面撞，也会是同样的结果。
她步履艰难，随时可能脸朝下跌倒，似乎完全凭借意志力才勉强保持了平衡。
小腿上又开始疼，再次警告她可能会抽筋，使她失掉右腿的力量。她闭上眼睛，不去理会。汗水沿着她的脸滚下来，冲掉了干在脸上的泪水，而她根本不记得何时哭过。过去多少时间了？多久了？雨声更弱。
很快，她听到的将是滴水声。也许德凯在和皮克林搏斗。也许他甚至在那张破桌子的抽屉里藏了一把枪，像打死一条疯狗似的干掉了皮克林。这里能听到枪声吗？她不这样认为；风仍然很大。更有可能的是，皮克林——他比德凯年轻二十岁，而且明显身体要更强壮——会夺过德凯拿出的任何武器，把它用在老头身上。
她试着不去理会这些想法，但这很难；即使知道多想无益，也还是很难。她仍然闭着眼，慢慢往前挪。她脸色苍白，嘴唇肿胀，每一步都像婴儿学步般艰辛。婴儿步一下，两下。 我还能再坚持六步吗？是的，你能。但第四步时，她几乎如蹲坐般弯曲的膝盖就碰到了冰箱。
埃姆睁开眼，不敢相信自己平安地完成了这次远征——一个手脚自由的人简单三步就能走完的距离，对她来说就像是次远征。一场见鬼的长途跋涉。
她没有时间来恭喜自己，并不仅仅是因为随时可能听到碉堡前门打开的声音。她还有其他的问题。由于试图以坐着的姿态行走，她的肌肉用力过度，颤抖不停；她觉得自己像个身体状态不佳的新手在尝试某个怪异得人神共愤的密教瑜伽姿势。如果不立刻行动，恐怕就永远没有行动的机会了。而万一这把椅子像它看上去一样坚固——
没有万一，她把这个想法抛到一边。
“很可能会疼的，”她喘着气，“你知道的，对不对？”是的，她知道，但她同时也明白皮克林脑子里盘算的东西比眼前的疼痛要糟得多。
“拜托了。”她说，一边转过身体，侧身对着冰箱。如果刚刚是她在祈祷，她觉得自己是在向死去的女儿祈祷。
“拜托了。”她又说了一遍，然后猛地把身体一拧，向冰箱门撞去。
这次的结果并没有像上次椅子突然脱离地面、使她差点头冲下撞到炉子上让她那么吃惊，但也差不多了。椅背发出了响亮的断裂声，椅座松动，歪到了一旁，岿然不动的只有椅腿。
“椅子是烂的！”她对着空无一人的厨房欢呼道，“那该死的东西是烂的！”或许严格说来不能称之为腐烂，但是——上帝保佑佛罗里达州的气候——它肯定没有表面看上去那么结实。终于来了一点点运气……而如果他就在她刚刚有点运气的时候回来，她想自己一定会发疯的。
What time is it now?How long has it been?she does not know.通常，她脑中都有一个相当准确的时间框架，但现在，它已经和墙上那个一样报废了。像这样完全丢失对时间的概念可怕得超乎寻常。她记起来自己那块大而笨重的电子表，忙低头去看，可是表不见了，只在它原来所在的地方留有一个苍白的压痕。一定是被他拿走了。
她差点马上就侧着身体再次往冰箱上撞去，但又有了更好的注意。她的臀部已经部分摆脱了椅座，这样她就有了更好的杠杆。就像刚才大腿和小腿同时用力往前撑，把椅子拽离地面一样，她绷紧了后背。而这次，当肌肉再次发出警报时，她不顾脊柱底部的疼痛，没有停下来放松和等待再次发力。在此时的她看来，等待过于奢侈。她可以看到他在那条没什么人的路的中央，一路跑回来，脚溅起了路面上的水，黄色的雨衣劈啪作响，而且一只手上拿着某个工具。可能是个扳手，是他从奔驰车血迹斑斑的后备箱里拿出来的。
埃姆继续向上用力。背部的疼痛加深了，似乎后背