Secrets of Redemption Box Set

by Michele Pariza Wacek

  I thought about Celia, and the almost desperate look on her face when she talked about leaving. “Like Celia.”

  He nodded. “Celia isn’t from here, I think she grew up in Illinois, but yeah, she’s stuck here. Not only is she married to Barry, who isn’t going anywhere, but they have two children. Redemption almost never lets its children go.”

  Almost never. I shivered. “What if the town doesn’t want you?”

  He stared directly at me. “Then you go,” he said simply.

  Mia’s voice echoed in my head. I’m sure she didn’t disappear. The coffee hardened into a lump in my stomach, and I swallowed hard to keep myself from throwing it up. “You mean disappear,” I said, my voice coming out in a croak. Next to me, the crow cawed again.

  He half-smiled. “It’s normally not so dramatic. Usually people just up and move, sometimes rather abruptly. Or they want to move here, and somehow it just never works out so they can. You see this with some of the summer visitors. They start looking for a cottage or a house, and every deal falls through. But, yeah, sometimes they do simply disappear.”

  I thought I was going to be sick. “Are you trying to say Redemption doesn’t want us?”

  He paused and rubbed his neck. “I’m not sure. It’s clear the town wanted Charlie here. The fact that your husband has spent almost no time here since your move makes me wonder if the town doesn’t want him.” He looked directly at me. “I don’t know about you, though. Or Chrissy.”

  He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t need to. I could almost hear his thoughts. Watch yourself. And watch Chrissy.

  I felt cold and nauseous. Is that what my dreams were trying to tell me too? Is that what the message in the mirror meant? That we weren’t wanted? That we should leave? Slowly, I stood up and brushed off my shorts. “I better go see about Chrissy. Thanks for getting her home.”

  He nodded as I picked my way across the fire pit. I found myself wondering, could that have been the reason why he stood me up when I was sixteen? Because he didn’t know if Redemption wanted me or not?

  When I drew close, he reached out, as if to touch me, but his hand simply hovered over my arm. “How are you feeling?”

  I looked up, a bit startled. I found myself wanting to ask him why he was being so nice to me. And if I could trust him. “I’ve certainly had better days,” I said instead.

  A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I meant your headaches. You said you were coming down with something. Are you better?”

  “I hope so. It’s been a couple of days and I haven’t had one.” My recent forgetfulness was another story.

  “I’m glad,” he said, but his eyes lingered on mine. I felt a jolt of electricity move through me, and for a moment, everything else melted away and I was sixteen again. Would I make different choices this time around? Or was I cursed, stuck in the same cycle, doing the same things over and over?

  I shivered again, although not from the cold.

  He noticed, and stepped out of the way, breaking the spell. “I should let you go.”

  I nodded. “Thanks again,” I said.

  He inclined his head as I headed over to my car. I looked back at him as I got in. He was still standing in the same place, watching me go. He lifted his hand to wave goodbye as I started the car and headed for home.

  My emotions were a mess. My dreams, the warning in the mirror, Chrissy sleepwalking, the story of Redemption, Daniel all collided in my head. I had no idea what to think about any of it. But, quite honestly, I had to set most of that aside. What I really needed to be doing was focusing on Chrissy.

  Had she been sleepwalking again? I thought about that footprint in the garden—maybe that had been hers after all. But still, the other side of town was a long way to sleepwalk. And she had her phone—if she were asleep, would she have grabbed her phone?

  On the other hand, if she had snuck out, why hadn’t she put her shoes on?

  Neither option made any sense.

  Or was something else going on with her? Something medical, maybe? She certainly hadn’t been acting normally. Getting drunk, out-of-control mood swings ... maybe what I really needed to do was get her to a doctor.

  Argh. I was just about to accelerate, knowing I really needed to get home to talk to her, when I saw her.

  Trundling down the sidewalk in front of me, pushing her loaded shopping cart, was the homeless woman, still bundled up in her scarves and jackets. I could feel my heart speed up. “Nonsense,” I told myself. “I’m in a car and she’s walking. What could she do to me?”

  Nevertheless, I found myself slowing down as I passed her. She turned to look at me, staring straight at me. Her eyes widened. I could see her lips move. “You know.”

  I quickly turned my head away to focus on my driving. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. In fact, it probably meant nothing at all. She may not have even said anything. Maybe she was just yawning.

  Regardless, the cold pit of fear that had been my constant companion since I discovered Chrissy missing that morning got even colder.

  Pulling into the driveway, I shut the car off and ran to the front door. I found Chrissy in the kitchen, a bowl of cereal in front of her. Her hair was wet, like she had taken a shower, and she was dressed in a tee shirt and cut off sweat pants. Her feet were covered in thick socks.

  She glanced up at me when I walked in, then quickly turned away. I took a deep breath, pulled out a chair, and sat down in front of her.

  “Wanna tell me what happened?”

  She didn’t answer, twisting her hair with her finger.

  “Chrissy. We need to talk about this.” I wanted to scream, but forced myself to speak quietly. “I want to know what happened, and if we have to sit here all day until you tell me, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. She sounded hollow and unsure—like a sad little echo of her normal self.

  “Tough. We’re going to talk about it.”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up her spoon and swirled it around her bowl.

  I didn’t say anything. I simply sat there and watched her play with her food. If that’s what I had to do to get her to talk to me, then that is what I would do.

  The house was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. The dust motes danced in the sun rays that slanted through the window. Chrissy stirred her cereal, but didn’t eat.

  Finally, she sighed. “I don’t really know what happened,” she said softly.

  I leaned closer. “What do you mean you don’t know what happened? Were you sleepwalking?”

  She looked up sharply. “I … I don’t know what happened.”

  “Okay, just start from the beginning. What do you remember?”

  She looked out the window. “I … I got a text. From one of my friends. She was going over to a friend’s house and invited me, and I decided to go.”

  I sat back. “You snuck out.”

  She nodded.

  I bit my tongue to keep myself from yelling at her. “Who was your friend?”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “I’d like to know her.”

  She made a face. “It’s Brittany.”

  “Is she the girl who came over the other night?”

  She nodded.

  “So, how did you get to your friend’s house?”

  “Brittany picked me up.”

  The whole conversation felt like pulling teeth. “Whose house did you go to?”

  “You don’t know her.”

  I tightened my jaw. “I know that. But I want to. Look, Chrissy. This needs to change. I need to know who your friends are. I need to meet them, and I need their contact information. You can’t do this anymore. What happened at this friend’s house? Was there drinking?”

  She didn’t meet my eyes. �
�Just beer.”

  “Did you drink?”

  “Not much. One or two maybe.” She finally looked at me. “I wasn’t drunk. Honest.”

  I almost believed her. “If you weren’t drunk, then why didn’t you call me to come get you? Why were you wandering around with no shoes on?”

  She muttered something I couldn’t hear into her cereal bowl.

  I leaned closer. “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

  “I said, I don’t know,” she said loudly. “I don’t know what happened!”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “I … I just found myself wandering around.”

  I sat back. “Chrissy, you’re making no sense.”

  Her jaw worked. “I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, I was walking down the street.”

  “But you had your phone. How did you have your phone and not your shoes?”

  She shrugged. “My phone was in my pocket.”

  I started rubbing my temples. “So, what you’re saying is you sleepwalked again? And found yourself walking outside. Chrissy, do you have any idea how dangerous that is? You could have been attacked, or hit by a car, or God knows what else. I think we need to take you to a doctor.”

  “No!” For the first time that morning, she looked directly at me, an expression of horror on her face. “I don’t need to see a doctor. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You just said you’re sleepwalking, and found yourself outside.”

  “I don’t think I was sleepwalking.”

  “So, you were drunk?”

  “No, I told you I only had a couple of beers.”

  “Chrissy, you can’t have it both ways. Were you sleepwalking or were you drunk?”

  “Neither! I … I don’t know what happened. But I’m fine. I don’t need to see a doctor.”

  I studied her, drumming my fingers on the table. Her agitation was definitely real, but was anything else? Was she out-and-out lying, or just not telling me the whole story?

  “Okay,” I finally said. “Your father is coming home this week and we can wait until he gets here to decide what to do. But Chrissy, we’re all going to have a conversation about this. It’s gone far enough.”

  She nodded and looked down. “I know,” she said in a small voice.

  I thought about saying something more. It felt like I should. But what?

  Instead, I got up from the table and turned to leave the kitchen.

  “Rebecca?” Chrissy said, her voice hesitant.

  I stopped and turned around.

  She still wasn’t looking at me. In fact, she seemed to be focused on something behind me. “I’m … I’m sorry.”

  I was quiet for a moment. Everything about her, from her facial expression to her body language, screamed absolute misery. I felt sorry for her. But her father needed to know. I couldn’t keep hiding all of it from him, no matter what her wishes were. “We can talk about it more with your father.”

  I turned to leave but then I thought of something. “And Chrissy?”

  She still didn’t look at me, but she dipped her head to indicate she was listening.

  “Call me Becca.”

  Chapter 25

  I sat back on my heels and stared at the bag of ground coffee.

  There it was, in the bottom cupboard in front of the slow cooker.

  Why the hell was it there? Who put it there? Was it me? Could I be the one misplacing all the things in the house? Maybe I was the one who should go to the doctor. Or, maybe it was Chrissy playing some sort of joke.

  I took the coffee and went to make a pot. Perhaps I should talk to Chrissy about it. I had avoided the subject so far mostly because I wanted to pick my battles with her. Her moods swung so wildly, they were impossible to predict, and keeping her as calm as possible seemed to be the best way to keep the peace, at least until her father was back in the picture.

  Stefan had texted the night before to let me know he had been able to get more done than he had anticipated, so he could join us early, and would arrive the following day. I had mixed emotions. On one hand, I was relieved he would be home sooner to help deal with Chrissy. I was also hoping he had wrapped things up faster because he had finally realized his child needed him, and had rearranged his schedule accordingly.

  Secretly, I was also wishing maybe he realized how much he missed me as well, and couldn’t wait for us to be together again.

  But, another part of me dreaded having Stefan home. What would he say when he walked in and saw that I still hadn’t done anything he had asked? Our stuff was still packed up, Aunt Charlie’s belongings were still everywhere, and I hadn’t even opened the door to Aunt Charlie’s bedroom, much less moved us into it.

  Would he be furious? Or would he understand? After all, it’s not like I hadn’t had my hands full, between getting sick and dealing with Chrissy.

  And seeing your friends on the side, a little voice chimed in.

  Including Daniel.

  I shivered, remembering the jolt of energy that flared between us at The Rock, before pushing that memory away.

  Daniel couldn’t be helped, I firmly told the little voice. If Chrissy hadn’t gotten drunk or … disappeared, I wouldn’t have seen him. And who cares that I did see him? Nothing happened.

  Yes, blame the sixteen-year-old, the little voice said. I decided to ignore it and focus on the positive instead. Stefan was finally going to be with us. We were finally going to have that time to bond and become a family again. And he would even have an office to work in. I had at least managed to whip The Magic Room into shape. That would make Stefan happy.

  Everything was looking up.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee, boiled a couple of eggs to eat with gluten-free toast, and took everything to the table. After finishing breakfast, I had every intention of digging in and getting as much of Aunt Charlie’s belongings packed away (and ours unpacked) as possible.

  But, as I sat in my warm, homey kitchen, dappled in the bright-yellow sunlight, the sunflowers winking at me from the glass canisters on the counter tops (ah, how Aunt Charlie loved her sunflowers), I started to have second thoughts.

  I had been so forgetful lately, misplacing all sorts of things … from my keys to the ibuprofen. Given that, was embarking on a massive reorganization of the house a smart move? What if I ended up making a bigger mess and no one was able to find anything?

  That would definitely annoy Stefan.

  In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I decided the prudent move would be to leave the house as it was, and instead, focus on cleaning up the studio. No one would care if I made a mess reorganizing the studio. It wasn’t like we were trying to live in it.

  Yes, that was definitely the way to go. Once Stefan was here, I could explain everything to him and make him understand. Maybe he would even realize how silly it was to unpack all of our New York belongings when we’d be moving back once we sold the house.

  I finished my breakfast, topped off my coffee, and began the long walk upstairs to the attic, to the studio.

  My footsteps slowed the closer I got to the top. It was hot. And musty. Dust, cobwebs, and bugs coated the creaky wooden steps. I passed a dried snake skin, too, as I climbed, and wondered why on earth a snake would shed its skin there.

  I reached the top, took another deep breath, stepped through the archway, and gasped.

  It was all bright sunlight and light wood. I had forgotten how huge the room was, with the high, pointed ceiling. Dusty windows lined both sides of the walls, which made it unbearably light, and unbearably hot. At the same time, all the natural light made it a perfect place to paint.

  Memories came rushing back. The hours I spent there painting. How sure I was I would become a painter—no matter what my family, my mother thought. The encouragement and love from
Aunt Charlie and my friends was all I needed.

  They had believed in me. They had thought I was good enough to make it as a professional artist.

  They hadn’t thought the only way I could support myself was becoming someone I wasn’t.

  Grief overwhelmed me. Grief for the girl I was, the woman I had become, and how far apart those two were. How much time I had wasted. How much I had lost. I could feel the first stabs of a headache behind my eyes.

  I slowly walked across the floor, the dust so thick I left footprints. Boxes, trunks, and old furniture was shoved against the walls under the windows, so I had to lean over them to wrench them open. Cool air rushed in, surprisingly cold on my wet cheeks. I realized I had been crying.

  I methodically began to open all the windows, sneezing the whole time, before approaching the corner that had been carefully set up for me to paint. It still looked exactly the way it did when I had left. I ran my fingers over the dusty jars of paint, the stiff and dried brushes, my old sketch book. Stacks of my paintings were lined up against the wall. Two easels, one still covered with a dusty white cloth, stood on top of a grey drop cloth. A wooden chair covered with paint splotches faced the easels, as if it were studying them.

  My chest literally ached as I stood there in what I once considered my “happy place.” I felt so sick, I wondered if I should just forget about it and come back another day.

  But, did I really think it would get any better? I sighed and scrubbed at my face. Baby steps. That was the ticket. Start small. Like tackling the dust. I could do that. I went downstairs for a bucket, mop, rags, and a Swiffer duster, changed into my oldest tee shirt, and dug in.

  But no matter how hard I focused on the dust in front of me, my eyes kept drifting back to my paintings. What would I see when I finally looked at them? Would I like them? Would I see talent? Did I want to see talent, or would that just devastate me more—knowing I had squandered it?