by Nancy Geary
“There’s been a mistake.” She heard Faith’s voice behind her. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Avery was immobile. Other than a single tear running down her cheek, there was no indication that she had processed what was happening or listened to what Lucy had said. She wore a blank expression that gave her delicate features a ghoulish quality. Lucy turned her away from the kitchen, and directed her toward the door. She felt Jack beside her, but didn’t look away from the slender back walking less than a foot in front of her. The huge house was shrouded in silence.
“I murdered Dr. Reese.”
Although the words were loud and clear, Lucy wondered if she was dreaming. But Faith repeated her confession.
Avery turned back in the direction of the kitchen. “Mom, don’t do this.”
“I’m only telling the truth. My daughter is not responsible for this crime. I shot her in the chest—just exactly as my son had shot himself.”
Her red eyes now rimmed with tears, Avery looked at Lucy. “You see what she’s doing, don’t you? Don’t listen. Let her go.”
“Quiet, Avery. I forbid you to say a single word more to the police,” Faith instructed.
“Mom, stop. I need you. I need your help,” Avery implored. “What are you doing?”
“I killed her.” Faith began to open her purse, and Jack instantly drew his gun. “I have nothing here to harm anyone, Officer,” she said politely, as she extended the bag for him to see. She reached in, and then opened her palm to show him two unspent bullets. “You’ll find these are the same kind as the one I used on Dr. Reese.”
“Mom, please!” Avery cried. She started to collapse, but one of the attending officers grabbed her and held her by her armpits. “You were only trying to help.”
“Release my daughter. She’s young. She’s done nothing wrong. I’m the one you want.”
She seemed strangely composed as Jack handcuffed her and advised her of her legal rights. Avery cried quietly, still half dangling from the officer’s arms.
As Jack led Faith past Lucy and Avery, the mother smiled. “I love you, my darling girl. You’re my joy, my only joy. I wouldn’t want this any other way.”
31
Saturday, August 9th 2:14 p.m.
Bill Herbert settled beside his daughter on the satin-covered settee. He glanced around the room, seemingly unnerved by his surroundings—a two-bedroom apartment on Lawrence Court that he’d moved into the previous March. With its minimal furniture and bare walls, the space had a transient feeling. He’d clearly never expected that his teenage daughter would reside there, too.
He’d lost weight and his cheekbones protruded dramatically. His temples looked grayer than Lucy remembered from when she’d seen him in May, and his half-glasses perched precariously on his slim nose. On a coffee table in front of him were a pitcher of lemonade, several mismatched glasses, and a pile of what looked to be shortbread cookies placed haphazardly on a plate.
Lucy and Archer perched opposite on small armchairs with mahogany frames and tight upholstery. Archer shifted uncomfortably for several moments, turning his body slightly sideways and resting on one hip with his long legs extended outward and crossed at the ankles. They’d been there for nearly ten minutes, yet the conversation hadn’t progressed beyond the barest of introductions.
Bill leaned forward and stirred the contents of the pitcher awkwardly, knocking against the glass sides repeatedly with a wooden spoon. “Lemonade?” he asked. Hospitality had been Faith Herbert’s realm, and he seemed to be struggling to figure out what to do to accommodate his guests.
Archer shook his head, declining the offer, and Bill sat back with a dejected expression.
Lucy felt sorry for both of them. “No thank you,” she added. “I had water just before we arrived.” Given the difficulties of the situation, Archer couldn’t be expected to comport himself with the best of manners. She reached over to rest her palm on top of his, wanting to demonstrate her support.
Archer had arranged this meeting with his half-sister on his own and unbeknownst to her. Only after it was scheduled did he ask Lucy to accompany him. “As my girlfriend, not in any official capacity,” he’d implored. “The investigation’s over.”
She hadn’t wanted to explain that an investigation is never fully over; there was always more information, more angles to explore. Out of necessity, cases had to be closed to move on to others. Trials happened and sentences were rendered. That was how the overburdened system managed to operate. But most detectives could recall the minute details of a case from a decade before, and would be more than willing to hear some new detail long after the defendant was serving time.
But that explanation was inappropriate. There were no professional problems standing in her way, and she’d agreed. Avery’s criminal case had been quickly resolved once it was transferred to juvenile court, where she’d entered a guilty plea to one count of reckless endangerment, a second-degree misdemeanor. In wildly swinging a baseball bat at the hood and roof of the Mercedes, she’d placed Reese in danger of serious bodily injury. Although it was a relatively minor disposition, the prosecution’s case for trial on a manslaughter charge had been extremely weak. Its own Medical Examiner would have had to testify that people recover from the type of subdural hematomas that Avery had inflicted, and he couldn’t predict the degree of permanent injury, if any. Dealing lightly with Avery also served the ultimate goal: the murder trial of Faith Herbert. The government needed Avery as a key witness. In negotiating this outcome, her defense attorney had offered her testimony.
A court-appointed psychiatrist specializing in adolescent behavioral disorders testified on behalf of Avery at the sentencing hearing. Avery suffered from an acute anxiety disorder brought on by the death of her beloved brother, and aggravated by both the separation of her parents and the sudden discovery of her biological mother. Although she had suffered from certain anxiety issues prior to the events in question, the combination of extreme emotional pain, confusion, and alcohol had made her impulsive. Her aggression was temporary. She’d lashed out in fear, destroying the car. When Dr. Reese had tried to stop her—to calm her down—she’d been hit in the head. But Avery had never intended the resulting damage.
The judge, a sympathetic elderly man who had leaned down from his bench to offer Avery his handkerchief when her emotions got the better of her as she gave her personal statement, placed her on probation. His opinion emphasized the lonely struggles of a suddenly twinless twin whose life had been turned upside down in the space of only a few months. During her probation, she would live in an environment closely supervised by her father in coordination with her court-appointed psychiatrist and would perform 250 hours of community service; when she turned eighteen, presuming she had no further problems with the criminal justice system, she would be free to resume a normal life, however that might be defined under the circumstances.
Although her case formally had been resolved, Archer had negotiated with defense counsel for the meeting. Avery’s lawyer had set strict parameters. Since Avery was still scheduled to testify in her mother’s trial, there would be no discussion of the night of May 17 and no questions about Faith Herbert. Bill was to be present and would ensure that these conditions were met unequivocally.
Sitting less than a yard away from a brother she’d never met, Avery stared at Archer. Her thin lips quivered slightly, but she said nothing. Her father put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her slightly to him, a move she appeared to resist, so he removed his arm and rested his hands in his lap.
“I guess . . . I just . . .” Archer began. He paused for a moment and looked at the floor, collecting his thoughts. “I understand now that Morgan wanted us to meet. The Sunday that . . . you know, the invitation she sent us both. The Liberty Bell.”
Avery nodded, although the movement was almost imperceptible. “We’re meeting now.”
He shrugged. “Maybe this was silly, another one of my dumb ideas. It just seemed so inc
onceivable that you even existed, that I had a sister, that I felt . . . well, it’s all been so disorienting.”
“It has been for Avery, too,” Bill added.
“Yes. Yes, I can imagine. And when I found out that Foster was your brother, my brother . . . I really loved his artwork. He had tremendous talent.”
Avery’s eyes filled with tears. “Nothing made him happier than that show, your show. I often wish it had never come down. Maybe everything would have turned out differently.”
“I just wish I’d known then what I know now,” Archer said.
“Me, too.” For a moment the sides of her mouth curled up, and she smiled. It was a fleeting gesture but in that second her face was transformed. The blank slate of detachment disappeared. Unconsciously, she moved her bony fingers sequentially as if playing piano scales on her forearm.
“How’s your mother?” Archer asked.
“We’re not supposed to discuss her,” Bill said.
“That’s right,” Lucy added, squeezing Archer’s hand a little tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I forgot.”
“It’s okay, though,” Avery said, looking nervously at her father. “I appreciate that you’ve asked. She’s brave, braver than I’d ever be. She tells me she’s okay, but that’s just what she’s always done: protecting me, not wanting me to worry even though I’m responsible.”
Archer nodded.
“Her trial date is set for October.” She leaned back on the settee.
Nobody spoke for several moments. The reference to Faith seemed to have stifled whatever progress the conversation was making. Lucy’s glance fluctuated between Archer and Avery. There was an uncanny resemblance in their mannerisms, as well as their physical features. No one would doubt that Morgan had strong genes.
Suddenly Archer tucked his legs beneath him and leaned forward, agitated. “This is beyond awkward, and I’m sorry. It’s incredibly stilted. Here we are sitting across from each other being monitored by your dad and the investigating cop who happens to be my girlfriend, and we’re all here because of a woman who happened to be our mother but who neither of us knew. I’m not sure what I wanted to accomplish when I set this up. I somehow thought we should meet with . . . with everything that’s happened.”
“Or maybe you wanted to follow through on her wishes,” Avery offered. “Morgan’s, that is.”
“As if what she wanted should matter.” His tone was bitter.
Avery shrugged, stood, and walked to the window. Turning the handle, she tilted the lower pane open, letting in a peal of laughter and the sounds of two children talking and giggling. “Daddy, Daddy, catch me!”
“Ready or not, here I come!” The reply wafted up from the street.
“She wanted us to understand, you know; that’s why she wanted us to meet.” Avery spoke with her back facing the room. “I think she thought if we were together, we’d somehow come to accept the choices she’d made. Kind of a ‘Look, it’s nothing personal. See? I abandoned all my kids.’”
“Safety in numbers,” said Archer.
Archer’s comment prompted Avery to turn back around. “Is there such a thing? But I do know that she didn’t want us to think badly of her. She begged me several times not to hate her.” She lowered her voice. “The problem is that I couldn’t help it.”
“Avery,” Bill cautioned, fearing that she was about to tread into dangerous territory once again.
“It’s okay, Dad. Nothing more can happen to me now,” she said without a hint of defiance. Instead her tone was sad, resigned. “What mattered to me most, my family, has been destroyed. And I’m to blame.”
“Foster’s suicide, your mother’s and my separation, those had nothing to do with you,” Bill said, as if he’d recited that mantra a thousand times.
“And what about Marissa?”
Bill started at the mention of his lover.
“She moved out because I was moving in.”
“It had nothing to do with you or anything that . . . had happened. It was only to make room,” Bill said, unconvincingly. He turned to his guests. “This apartment is quite small, as you can see. But once the Gladwyne house sells, we’ll consider something bigger for all of us.”
Lucy wanted to ask whom “us” included, but she refrained. No doubt the answer was unknowable until Faith’s trial concluded.
“Morgan told me she’d tried to kill herself once,” Avery said, matter-of-factly, ignoring her father’s attempt at comfort. “She showed me the scars on her wrist, as if I needed proof. I think it was her way of demonstrating that her choices had been difficult for her, or at least that they had had consequences. Then she wanted to talk about Foster, his depression, and whether I suffered from it, too. She claimed she’d been taking some psych medications herself. It was as though she wanted to identify with him, with me, with our problems. But all of it made me realize one thing. Being a mother isn’t a job. It’s either who you are or it’s not. Does that make sense?”
Mrs. O’Malley’s image flashed in Lucy’s mind, their conversation about the parable of King Solomon and the story of Michael and the boiling water. I wasn’t a hero. I’m a mother. Those had been her words.
“Look at what my mother’s done—my real mother. Giving or not giving birth had nothing to do with the way she treats me or treated us. She’d give up her own life—literally—to help me. I know I am very lucky to have been given parents who wanted me, who would protect me, or at least try.”
Lucy cringed inside. Given Archer’s feelings toward his own father, she knew Avery’s words jabbed. Bill and Faith Herbert had done everything in their power to overcome a biological reality, but she was not at all sure Archer would give Rodman that much credit; he’d done little if anything to compensate for an absent mother. Meanwhile, in many respects she’d taken her own parents for granted. She’d never considered other possibilities or how destructive they could be.
“I should have appreciated what I had,” Avery said. “That was my problem. It sounds Pollyanna, but I feel that way now. I should never have sought more information. The little bit we’d been told destroyed my brother. I should have let Morgan make her overture. I didn’t have to respond. She would have gone away, disappeared into the world she’d been in before. But I thought that knowing some biological truth was the key to unlocking the mystery of my brother and his mental illness. I was wrong. No discovery of some great truth about our bloodline was going to bring him back or make me whole.”
The color had left Bill’s face. He covered his mouth with his fist and looked at the floor.
Avery took a few steps toward the settee and rested her hands on its back. She leaned over the top toward Archer. “But I apologize to you. Because of what I did, she’s gone, whether you would have wanted to know her or not. And for that I am really and truly sorry, more sorry than you can possibly know. You should have been able to make your own choice.”
“I already had,” Archer mumbled.
“But you planned to meet her—meet us—on Sunday, or at least she said you hadn’t told her you wouldn’t be there. I went to the Liberty Bell at eleven, wondering whether you’d show up or whether you already knew.” She nodded slightly toward Lucy. “I took away your chance. That’s what I have to live with.”
Avery seemed to collapse beside her father, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Despite the maturity of her words, sitting tucked beneath his wing she appeared young, fragile, and lost.
Nobody spoke. After several moments, Archer reached forward and poured himself some lemonade. He took a long sip.
“Avery will pay her debt to society,” Bill said halfheartedly. “She’ll do community service. Lots of it.”
“What did you work out with probation?” Lucy asked.
“I’m going to be helping kids—little kids—who have difficulty with mobility. They’re on crutches or have braces. One adorable little girl is paralyzed. And I’ll help them learn to horseback-ride.”
“Will you use your own horse?”
“No. It’s a stable where the animals have been trained very carefully. Mine is way too green. Or I should say, wild,” she added to clarify. “These horses are amazing. They have a sixth sense for what the children need. They seem so happy to offer up the use of their own legs, their own movement.”
“It sounds inspiring.”
“I think it is—or will be. I want to be able to give them a sense of freedom and of security at the same time. And a sense of hope.” Her eyes sparkled at the prospect.
“Maybe I should sign up,” Archer said without looking up.
“Shouldn’t we all,” Lucy added.
Lucy and Archer ambled along Lawrence Court and turned east onto Pine Street. The mugginess had cleared, and the late-afternoon sun shone on their faces. The good-bye had been strained, with neither Avery nor Archer suggesting further communication. Archer had said nothing since they’d left Bill and Avery’s apartment, but after several blocks, he reached his arm around Lucy and held her waist. His long legs against her shorter ones made their stride awkward, and she struggled to lengthen her step.
Although there wasn’t a car in sight, at the crosswalk they stopped for a red light.
“Are you angry?” Lucy asked. It had been the question she’d wanted to ask since the day of Avery’s arrest.
“What do you mean?”
“I was thinking about what Avery said, about depriving you of a choice to reconsider your relationship with your mother.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know what I feel. Her point was odd, at least to me. I never think of a child choosing a parent. Isn’t it that what you’re born with is what you get? Even in her case, it’s not as though she got to interview the prospective candidates for adoption.”
“There is that adage about picking your friends.”