What Happened to Cass McBride? (13 page)
Scott got out of the way of the big shovels. He gave Ben a questioning look. He turned and went to the other end of the grave. Another hose stuck out. It was duct-taped to a big funnel. Taped into the funnel was a computer fan, which was hooked to a part of a computer box, and the whole thing was hooked to a long string of extension cords that ran to an electrical receptacle.
“Damn! Clever, simple, easy to make, easy to get parts, quiet, and gets the job done.” Scott waved at Ben and pointed to the device. “It won't move a lot of air, there's got to be some carbon dioxide buildup, but she's got a chance, right?”
“I can't hear anything,” Ben said. “Cass, Cass, wake up. Come on, Cass. I'm Ben Gray and I'm here to help you. A lot of people are here to help you. We're going to get you out of there. But I want you to say something. Talk to me. Okay. Try to say something, Cass. People say you're the girl that gets things done. So, say something, Cass.”
One of the paramedics leaned in to Ben. He spoke quickly, pointing to a clear tube he was holding and then to the one Ben had.
“Got it,” Ben said.
He returned to the air tube. “Cass, the paramedic is going to run an oxygen tube down this one, so I won't be talking to you for a minute and a clear tube will poke out at you in just a few seconds. Then we'll pump some oxygen down. It's going to perk you up a little. Just breathe deep when it comes in. Then talk to me, Cass. Please. Say something.”
Ben handed the tube to the waiting paramedic.
“Tube's in.” He passed the tube back to Ben and whirled his finger in the air. “Okay, oxygen's pumping. Nobody smokes in here.”
“Cass?”
Ben rubbed his head. “Can't you guys dig faster?”
“Why didn't we get the walkie from the kid?” Scott said.
“It's in the front seat of his truck. Still at his house,” Ben said. He put the tube up to his ear. “I think I hear her breathing.”
“That's the oxygen, Detective,” the paramedic said. At Ben's bitter glance, he looked away and muttered, “Sorry.”
“Cass, we've got him. Kyle can't hurt you again, so don't be afraid. Tell me you're alive, Cass. Talk to me. C'mon, Cass. Be the girl that wins.”
“We're here. There's a tarp over the box.”
“Get that off,” Ben barked.
Scott dropped to his stomach and grabbed the tarp, pulling it back with him.
Crowbars replaced shovels and the box lid was levered up.
Ben looked in.
“Jesus,” he said.
I'm back in a dark, narrow space with a square button under my thumb. Talking. Finding the words for my story. I do this every night.
I know I'm not still in the box. After all the lights went dim, I woke up and was in the hospital.
The hospital spooked me—so loud and busy and glaring. Sensory overload. I pulled blankets over my head. If anyone pulled them away, I shook and whimpered until someone took pity and returned the blankets.
I think I slept a lot. Tranquilizers? Don't know. Don't care. Sleep was good. Dark, restful, and quiet. I woke once and Dad was holding my right hand. The one that had held the radio. My left hand was in bandages that looked like a boxing glove. My feet looked the same way.
He seemed to sense my eyes open, or he was watching. But he looked straight at me and started crying. I closed my eyes again and went back to sleep, but I don't think he let go.
Later, I woke up because I felt something move the bed. Weight near me. I woke up a little more fully and saw my mother. This time it was me that started crying. She pulled me into her arms and I nuzzled my face into her neck like I used to do when I was a little kid. She stroked my hair and said, “I hear you. I hear you, Bebe. You don't have to say a word.”
Do unspoken words speak loudest? Say the most?
A big man came to see me and said he had been the lead detective on my case. He said I talked my way out of that grave. That might be true. But he's ignoring something.
I talked my way into it.
When I realized that, I decided to start listening.
So I've stopped talking to people. It's not that I can't talk. I think that I don't know when I should talk and when I shouldn't.
Sometime later, I was transferred to the psych unit. I like it here. Safe and quiet. My doctor says that I did die in that grave. A person doesn't really live through something like that. A new person is born and steps out.
My fingers and toes aren't in bandages anymore. They told me I had skin grafts because they were shredded to the bone. My fingertips are all patchy and funky-looking.
But how did I heal so quickly? Nothing is making sense. What people say, things, time; it's still all mixed up.
For instance, Mom was here today. She told me that Dad bought her a house so she can stay here with me. Bought the furniture, but let her pick it all out herself. That's as reasonable as me saying I'll go home with Mom and live in the swamp and sling crawfish and take in foster children and never be a bitch. Get serious. Dad might buy her a house to stay near me after all this mess, but he'd never, ever let her pick out the furniture. So that other stuff is probably wrong too.
My mother has brought Christmas trees here. Little ones, all decorated, to “cheer up my room for the season,” she says. And presents. And she and Dad have both brought birthday presents. And cakes. More than once.
Why all that in just a few months? Are they just trying to make me think time has passed so I'll get better sooner?
I don't care how many cakes or Christmas trees come in here. I know it's only been a few months because I haven't been called to testify at the trial.
Kyle's.
Detective Gray came back to tell me that if I was afraid of Kyle, I didn't have to be. Kyle was in prison. He wasn't even in general population, but in a special section. He has a cell to himself. Kyle spends all his time with law books, trying to find a way to put his mother in jail for being responsible for David's murder.
The shrink wonders if I have some sort of Stockholm syndrome. You know, like I bonded or fell in love with Kyle. That's not this movie. I get it that Kyle lived with a monster, but he had choices, and someone that buries a human being alive should be locked up forever.
And that's where the time thing goes all—wrong. I know Kyle can't be in prison yet. I know there hasn't been a trial. The only way out of that box was through Kyle. And the only way to get Kyle in prison was through me. I had to put him there. I had to go to that trial and testify. Tell the story. How could anyone know what happened if I didn't tell them? He put me in my box, and I have to be the one to put him in his.
At night I crawl into the narrow metal locker in my room with a tape recorder held in my right hand. I punch the button with my thumb and I tell the story. I start from the beginning when David asked me out to the end where I'm making the tape. Here in the dark where there's no place to hide from myself. And then I listen.
And then I erase.
And when the words make sense and all the blame is where it belongs, I'll be ready to talk in the light.
As ever to my wonderful agent, Scott Treimel, for taking such good care of me. To Andrea Spooner, my editor, who gave me a shovel, taught me to dig and did it so graciously. To Sangeeta Mehta, the assistant editor that kept us both sane. Deb Vanasse, thanks for the early read and catching the big inconsistency. Pam Whitlock for listening to me read this thing over and over when she should have been resting.
And to the memory of my most steadfast writing companion, Jack London, my Great Pyrenees, who sat by my feet through every revision of every book I've had published right through this one. Yes, I'm aware he was a dog, but he was my muse and my companion, and he wouldn't let me out of my chair until I was finished. I miss him.
And to Little, Brown—thanks for having me.
G
AIL
G
ILES
might not be claustrophobic, but she was inspired to write
What Happened to Cass McBride
when she was snowbound at home in Alaska. “I was entombed,” she remembers, “and I felt like I was buried alive. And then I knew I had to write about what that experience might be like.” Gail is also the acclaimed author of
Playing in Traffic, Dead Girls Don't Write Letters,
and
Shattering Glass
(an American Library Association Best of the Best selection). She now lives in The Woodlands, Texas, with her husband, her cat, and two dogs. She blogs at notjazz.livejournal.com.
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Reader's Guide:
what Happened to cass McBride?
1) At first glance, the title
What Happened to Cass McBride?
seems to refer to Cass's disappearance, meaning, “Where is Cass McBride?” But the title may have other implications as well. For example, what happened to Cass emotionally a) after she learned of David's suicide, b) after she realized she had been buried alive, c) when she found a way to get through to Kyle, and d) when she awoke in the hospital? Perhaps the tide asks, “How did this experience change Cass as a person?” How do you think some of the characters (such as Kyle, Cass's dad, and her friend Erica) might answer this question?