Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4)

by Normandie Fischer

  She was going to beat this thing.

  Please. Oh, please.

  Her thighs hurt first, a deep stinging that traveled down, then up to grab her torso. How had she gotten so out of shape? Her lungs told her to quit, and lazy slug that she was, she obeyed.

  The walk back to her prison did nothing for her mood. She heard a beep from her cell phone when she pushed open the door, and her apartment phone blinked its message light.

  Ignoring these, she shed her clothes and got in the shower. Water scalded her back, but it worked in lieu of a cat-o’-nine-tails to scourge her. Her skin was red and sore when she climbed out, but not sore enough to make her forget her other lives: the one as Greg’s wife, and the one who’d let Jack in.

  She bent over the bathroom sink. She didn’t want to look in the mirror. She didn’t want to see this self, this taker.

  This thief.

  Holding her hand up against the light, she stared at it. Fingers intact, a few veins visible where there’d been only smooth skin. She could feel it. She could see it. It could touch her cheek and recognize sensation both on the fingertips and on the facial skin.

  Tangible things, tangible feelings. But what about the inner woman? Who was that person?

  She picked up her clothes, put on her last clean anything, then wiped down the bathroom and decided to tackle the kitchen next. She had so little to do. No one needed her. Rhea and Tootie could handle the shops. Cindy had her mother, but Sam couldn’t seem to move on, so she had an ugly apartment and places she didn’t want to go.

  The doorbell rang as she was scrubbing the kitchen floor. She closed the bedroom door before answering.

  “Hey, Mom,” her son said.

  “Daniel. Is everything all right? Cindy?”

  He smiled reassuringly as he looked over her shoulder at the room. “She’s fine. May I come in?”

  “Oh, of course.” She backed to let him enter. “You want some tea?”

  “Coke?”

  “You know I don’t keep sodas.”

  “Water then.”

  She tiptoed across the damp linoleum to fill a glass. Daniel saw her. “Don’t bother. I didn’t realize it was wet.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I left you a message. Both phones. I went to see Jack.” Daniel pulled out a taped packet. “He called and asked me to visit. And then he asked me to give you this.”

  Why had Jack used her son as a courier? He had no right. “Did he say why he was giving it to me? Why he wanted to see you?”

  “He helped me when I needed it. You know that. So I think he wanted company, and he knew I’d come.” Daniel waved toward the bundle. “He thought you should read what’s in there. He said it explains a lot.”

  She bet it did. “How is he?”

  “He doesn’t even look like himself. I can’t believe India would do something like that. I mean, almost kill Jack and then kill herself? She must have gone completely off the reservation. I just can’t figure out why Jack missed seeing how badly she needed help.”

  Good question. Maybe India’d been crazy, but then maybe she’d had reason for her madness. Sam didn’t know. “Did he want me to visit?”

  “No. He asked me to tell you not to, at least not now. He said when you read what he sent, you’d understand better.”

  She smoothed her hand over the package. Understand? Was that even possible?

  “Are you okay? I mean, you’re just hanging out like this. Why don’t you go home?”

  “I can’t, honey. Not yet.”

  “Because of what India did there?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Stefi called me. She’s worried.”

  “She shouldn’t be. I’m fine. No one needs to worry.” Sam tried to smile reassuringly. “Tell me how Cindy’s doing.”

  “Her mother’s been a big help.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get back. I told her I’d take her grocery shopping this afternoon.”

  She stood and gave him a hug. “Thanks for coming by.”

  “Call me if you need anything?”

  “Of course. I’m fine, really.”

  After he left, Sam stared at the brown padded envelope. At least Jack had sealed it so Daniel wouldn’t be tempted to peek. She set it on the counter, near the phone, and backed away. It screamed like the tell-tale heart under Poe’s floor.

  She had to escape. She couldn’t listen another moment to those thurumping floorboards.

  More people were out and about, a couple of old men lounging in front of the all-night grocery, a woman sitting just inside the Self-Wash with two babies in a twin stroller. Sam never passed the Self-Wash without wishing the name were true: eight quarters in a slot and she’d be cleaned.

  The renewed exercise did her some good. It must have. At least it gave her the energy and enough hunger to pick up a small pizza on the way back to the apartment. She carried it inside and turned on the television.

  Thurump, thurump.

  She turned up the volume and watched nothing at all.

  39

  Teo

  We choose the doing

  And also the done,

  Some for the future,

  And some for today.

  Silence pervaded Teo’s world as he balanced precariously in the stillness of his flat. His fingers worked remotely from his brain as he rewrote and revised. Abroad, his lips sucked liquid, and his throat swallowed food, and he lived.

  He even answered the phone and spoke into it. He heard updates from Tootie, his sister’s fears about trauma after a suicide, Val’s cheerful sales data and blandishments meant to encourage him to do more, write more, speak more, travel more.

  But the words he remembered came from that last phone call to Samantha. “It wasn’t real.”

  The hell it wasn’t.

  Sorry, Lord, but really?

  And, um, God, what on earth had he done so wrong this time?

  When the phone rang, he didn’t answer immediately. But it was Stefi. He had to take it.

  “Go help her,” Stefi said. “Go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “She’s in terrible shape. If you care at all, please go.”

  “Look, I’ll talk to you soon. This really isn’t a good time.”

  It might never be a good time.

  The words festered, a boil ready to pop. Stefi thought her mother needed rescuing and said there was no one else. But Samantha didn’t want him.

  Or perhaps she merely couldn’t.

  “What should I do?” His whisper echoed back at him. “What?”

  He stared at his computer screen, answerless. When the phone rang again, it was Nicco calling to invite him out. “Mi dispiace, Nicco. I’m working on a project right now. Another time?”

  “Sì, sì, certo. Another time.”

  To get out of his flat, he wandered down to Le Stelle and knocked back an espresso. But he didn’t stay. His cane tapped on the sidewalk. Passing Il Mare Turchese, he thought of going in but changed his mind.

  His rooms grew chilly in the evening air. He couldn’t write. Or think.

  His head fell forward. “God, please.”

  And he heard her voice, which voice he didn’t know. She wept soundlessly and yet he heard the wail.

  It was time. He picked up the telephone.

  40

  Samantha

  Lies steal breath. Shape changers,

  They morph facts and those of us who listen.

  She ignored the package for three days, girding up her loins and telling herself that no amount of crazy, dead heartbeats would break her down.

  But she didn’t throw it away. And that gave her pause, the why-not of it.

  The package stared at her as she brewed her morning coffee, as she toasted a slice of bread. It moved to the table, because its place under the phone was too awkward. Too something.

  Loud, maybe?

  She pulled a chair up to the table and pushed the bundle just out of reach. A few sips into the cof
fee, a few bites of toast later, and she picked it up. Holding it, weighing its heft, didn’t hurt. She had almost expected it to explode beneath her fingers.

  The book slipped out easily once she tore the wrapping. The diary wasn’t locked, though a key was taped to the outside. She opened it gingerly.

  It acted like any book begging to be read.

  But this was a horror story.

  It wasn’t long before Sam’s gut convulsed, and those sips of coffee and three bites of toast wanted out.

  So, out they came.

  She hated Jack for sending such a thing. She hated herself for reading it.

  When the knock sounded, she ignored it. It came again. And then again. Whoever it was must have seen the Toyota and known she was home. She tried to keep her vowels clean when what she wanted was angry.

  She got up to look though the peep hole and couldn’t believe whose face stared back through the distorted glass. As if he could see her, she ducked, then flattened her back against the door, her palms at her sides, her eyes rounded. What was he doing here?

  She had to open the door. He’d come all the way from Italy.

  The chain rattled. She turned the lock and gazed at him. He wore a jacket she’d never seen before. It was leather. Of course it was leather. Tan and soft and—what was he doing here?

  “May I come in?”

  She backed out of the way. She’d just pretend this was an ordinary visit, that she was in ordinary shape. That she didn’t look like a Holocaust victim.

  “Would you like to sit down?” She motioned vaguely in the direction of the room.

  He did a visual tour, then stared at Sam. “This is your place?”

  “Temporarily.”

  He looked angry. It stirred something in her. “I sure hope it’s very temporary,” he said. “Come on, get dressed, and let me take you out for breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “You know, as in waffles, pancakes, juice. Maybe we can even find a chocolate croissant.”

  She smiled slightly at that but shook her head. She wished her hair felt clean against her neck. His probably smelled clean and fresh and... Stop it. “I can’t. I’m busy.”

  He cocked a brow. “Now?”

  She nodded and walked toward the kitchenette where she put on the kettle. “You want some coffee or tea? I have some bagels.”

  “Tea, please. A bagel would be fine.”

  Making tea took great concentration. So did toasting a bagel and putting out jam and cream cheese. She checked the cheese before offering it to make sure it wasn’t mottled with green.

  Teo leaned against the wall and watched. She knew what he was seeing, the same face and body she cringed from whenever a mirror caught her. Her cheekbones protruded and dark circles removed any hint of beauty she may have once claimed. Her hair had woven itself in tangles.

  She handed him a mug and a plate and brushed past him into the living room. “Why did you come?” she asked once she’d settled on the sofa.

  “I had to see you, to see for myself that you’re okay.”

  “Now you’ve seen me.”

  “And you’re not okay.”

  “I’m doing fine, Teo. I just need time.” She finished her tea in deep gulps and got up. “Excuse me, will you? I’ve got to wash my face.”

  He was standing over the open diary when she emerged in jeans and turtleneck. The jeans were a little baggy now, but Sam hoped that the turtleneck hid most of the bunchiness where she’d cinched her belt into the last slot.

  “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the open pages.

  “India’s diary.”

  “Why do you have it?” His tone still had an edge to it, but the anger sounded laced with curiosity.

  “Jack gave it to Daniel to give to me. Said he thought I ought to read it.” Sam tried to sound nonchalant while she shivered, remembering the scrawled words, India’s last testament.

  “Have you?”

  She nodded. “Some.”

  “And?” He looked fully at her.

  She stood across from him. Her fingers touched the open page, lingered a moment, and then she backed up until the wall stopped her. Pressing her palms down the side of her thighs, she spoke with all the stoicism she could muster. “I got through the mess when her father essentially took over molesting her from her older brother. After the brother killed himself. Her brother Rick.” Sam shook her head, felt shakes start again in her belly. “Can you imagine? She threatened me with him as if he were right there with her. In the moment.”

  Teo continued to stare at her silently. Sam wiped her face with both hands, tucking strands of hair behind her ears. She sucked in a deep breath and released it.

  “So, in there,” —Sam nodded to the diary— “India was writing to a man who died when he wasn’t much more than a boy.”

  Pulling away from the wall, she sank into a chair. Teo eased down next to her.

  “She wrote as if he were right there, talking to her, listening to her,” Sam said. “I don’t know if she thought she saw a ghost or a person. In most of the last part, she wrote as if he were occasionally hiding from her. She kept begging him to come back.”

  “And Jack didn’t have a clue?”

  Sam waved as if to brush off the question. How many times had she asked that same question? “He hinted at a closer than normal relationship between the siblings and some abuse by the father.”

  “I still don’t understand why he wanted you to read and rehash it.”

  Sam sighed. “He told Daniel that it helped him understand India’s actions. But I don’t know if he meant the poisoning part or the suicide part.”

  “Because it shows her to be mentally unbalanced?”

  Sam picked up the book, flipped through it, then pushed it aside. She couldn’t stomach reading any more about good old Dad Monroe. Or about India’s physical relationship with her brother. Maybe the clues Jack talked about were at the end.

  “Do you really think you need to finish it?”

  She lifted her shoulders again. “I’m this far. If I don’t figure this out, I’m never going to get rid of the images already there. Her descriptions are horribly graphic—and you know how I feel about that.”

  “Would you like some help with it?” Teo asked, his tone neutral. “I could read to you if it’s too much, or you could read to me. It might take some of the sting out of the process. I don’t know.”

  “What? Are you just morbidly curious? The writer has to know?”

  Sam hadn’t meant it to be humorous, but Teo grinned. “A little of both? Plus a sincere desire to help you move past this place you’re in.”

  “If reading the thing doesn’t dig a deeper pit.”

  “Well, at least you’ll have a friend to help you climb out.”

  That elicited the first smile she’d been able to arrange in a while. He was a nice man, in all the meanings of the word. “You read to me, then.”

  He picked up the book and flipped forward a few pages as Sam retreated to the sheet-covered monstrosity of a couch. She motioned him over. “Might as well make the best of bad furniture.”

  “She seems to be recording a visit to Jack in the hospital here,” he said, flipping through pages, “so that’s pretty late in the game. I won’t go by days, because I think that will make it too choppy. Shall we see what this says and then go back if we need an explanation of anything?”

  Sam nodded. She did have the slightest, and thoroughly morbid, curiosity. At least having Teo with her took away some of the horror.

  I should have just stayed away from that horrible place. Let Jack rot in his bed. His nasty words still sting, but I answered the only way I could—by reminding him he’d started things. He’d lied. He had. He was no better than any of them. And then I dropped the envelope of pictures in his lap. I wish I could have seen his face when he looked at himself on that nasty boat with That Woman.

  Sam held a fist in front of her lips, but lowered it enough to whisper, “Oh,
Teo. To have taken pictures. To have had to look at them again and again.” The cold seeped back in, solid, like a lump of ice in her belly. “Tootie said something about Jack having photos.” She remembered India’s midnight knock on her door. How had Jack explained that one away?

  Teo continued reading.

  Part of me is glad Jack looked so bad. Sick. At least he’s still suffering even if the treatment is working. He deserves it for lying.

  When I told him we were even now, he said get out. Just like that. Even when I reminded him we had to forgive each other because that’s how it works.

  I hate him. I really hate him.

  He said he couldn’t stand to look at me. And when I reached for his hand, he snatched it away, turning his whole body from me. He told me not to come back. He called me a murderer. Okay, not a real one, because he didn’t die, but it doesn’t matter to him that I didn’t mean to kill him.

  I think he’d have called the police on me, that’s how mad he was.

  Here I am, alone again.

  I am always alone.

  I found a poem about him and Sam. Oh, not about them, not really. But it fits.

  You want to hear it? I’ll write it here. You used to write poems for me when I was little. This one fits Jack and her so well, I feel a cackle rise up in my throat when I read it now.

  Get it? Cauldrons?

  It’s called “The Other Woman.” Catchy title, don’t you think? Sorry, but I didn’t write down the poet’s name.

  Witches’ cauldron,

  Potions brewing,

  Out of her belly chants a-spewing.

  The other woman wove her spell,

  Cast her net and reeled it in.

  And he, entrapped by various wiles,

  “Enthralled, in love,”

  Her victim smiled.

  See what I mean? That’s Sam. A witch who wove a spell around my Jack. I wonder if she’s happy over there in Italy. Probably. People like Sam always come out on top. They always get what they want.

  Only Sam didn’t get Jack. No sir. And, you know what? If Jack goes to Sam now, well, there won’t be all that much left, will there?