Fever Dream

Chapter One

Grace

Two weeks earlier

Two weeks earlier

Maybe I killed my husband. But I never would’ve hurt the children. That’s how I know Charles isn’t dead. It doesn’t matter what any of them say. I know this to be true, the way you just know a thing deep down in your soul. I feel them in my bones, all three of them. They are very much alive, and they are out there looking for me.

It’s not like anyone, not even the police—especially not the police—can prove otherwise. They don’t have bodies. They have no evidence against me, no proof that my family is actually dead. So there was a little blood in my kitchen? What does that prove? Nothing. It proves nothing.

especiallyactually And they say I’m the crazy one.

Maybe I should have fought harder when they brought me here. But I didn’t fight. Not even a bit. I sort of shuffled through the front doors like this was a hotel and I was here for a short overnight stay. Little did I know…

At the time, I was hopeful. No—I was certain, and certain is a very dangerous thing to be, far more dangerous than a killer.

certain,I was certain this was all a terrible misunderstanding. I don’t know if it was my naivete or simply a protective mechanism, but either way, this is how it was. Of course, now I wish it were different, but you can’t really go and change the past. Trust me, I’ve tried.

When I first arrived—when they brought me here—a woman in white hospital scrubs greeted me. She asked a lot of questions.

“What’s your name?”

“My name?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” She looked down at me with shrewd eyes and a stern expression. “Don’t be difficult.”

My mouth was bone dry, and my tongue felt like a thousand pound lead weight. Saying anything was difficult. I tried to tell her this. I didn’t want her to misunderstand my intentions. Actually, that was the last thing I wanted, because that’s how this all began. It was just a simple misunderstanding. Nothing extraordinary, even.

anything She shook her head and with a scoff said, “Your name, Miss?”

“Grace.”

“Surname?”

“Solomon,” I stammered. “Grace Solomon.”

“And I suppose you know why you’re here?”

“Not really,” I said, which was the truth.

“You’ve had a break, Mrs. Solomon.”

“So they say.” I thought I’d muttered it to myself or at the very least under my breath, but obviously I was wrong, because she heard me.

The woman pursed her lips in a way that made me know better than to say more. After she jotted something down on her clipboard, something I couldn’t see, she shook her head, like this was the last thing she wanted to be doing.

“Extreme psychosis,” she noted, drawing the words out.

She couldn’t possibly be referring to me, so I tried not to take anything personally. I assumed she must have a really heavy case load.

I watched as she chicken-scratched the words on paper, pressing harder than she needed to. “Delusional.”

I wouldn’t call it that, exactly. Even if my husband sometimes did.

Sure, I was having a bad day, and sure, Charles was late getting home and dinner had long gone cold on the table. Yes, I had received another letter from Toby’s teacher, and yes, Eleanor had gotten into my red nail polish and used it to paint the new linoleum.

Of course, I knew Charles wasn’t going to be happy about it. We’d just had the new flooring installed, and he wasn’t happy with my choice. He’d been on a trip and was therefore unreachable, not that I really considered it. A decision had to be made, so I made it. Passive aggressive, perhaps. Smart? Maybe not. What was I thinking, choosing white?

What was I thinking, choosing white?Why weren’t you watching her, he’d ask using his exasperated tone, the one he’d taken to reserving just for me. And even though I would explain why, he still wouldn’t get it. How could he? Charles has never stayed home with two children under two.

Why weren’t you watching her,Well, I mean, then he hadn’t. I guess that’s all changed now with me being in here. I smile, wondering how he’s managing. How’s he getting on with work? But just as quickly as it sneaks up on me, I push the thought away.

How’s he getting on with work?It feels like a sucker punch straight to my gut, thinking like this. Even though, sometimes, when I can stomach it, I do let myself go there. It’s like tiptoeing in just to see how the water feels. It’s rarely pleasant, but that never stops me from trying. I can never quite quell the desperate curiosity. I tell myself this is a good thing, although I’m not so sure.

“All right,” the lady in white said like an afterthought. “Let’s get you settled.”

As she led me up three flights of stairs and down a long hall to this room, I thought of all the stories Charles will have to share when he finds me. Stories about the children, about how he never stopped searching, how could he?

how could he?He’s not cut out to be both mom and dad. He used to say something to that effect whenever I’d complain about needing a break. Try doing my job, would ya?

and Try doing my job, would ya?I used to spend a lot of time thinking about that. About actually getting to do his job. How wonderful it would be to shuffle out of bed after a restful night’s sleep, to find your coffee and newspaper waiting on the table, eggs frying in the pan. I used to dream about commuting in peace and the consumption of uninterrupted lunches that someone else made.

Now, I understand. What he said was true. You should be careful what you wish for.

Yes, those things had happened that evening. And yes, I was getting my period, and I might have lost my temper. But what I did not do is murder my family in cold blood.

might