He nodded and gave her his full attention.
“About the old bank…Are—”
Marty’s cell phone rang. She picked it up from its spot on her nightstand and flipped it open. “It’s Brooke.” She hit the connect button and pressed it to her head. “Hello?”
“Marty, you need to get over here right away. Bring Anthony, too.”
Panic propelled Marty to her feet. She waved at Anthony to get up. “What’s going on?”
“Just come! Quick!” The phone went dead.
Marty tossed Anthony his robe, and she jammed her arms into hers and hurried through the trailer. Anthony grabbed her hand and they ran to Brooke’s front door, which was standing open in invitation. He guided her over the threshold first, then burst in behind her.
Brooke was still on the sofa but sitting up with the remote control from her television gripped in her fist. She pointed the remote at the flat-screen television hanging on the wall. The image was frozen and the volume silenced. “I rewound the broadcast so you could see this. Watch and listen, both of you.”
Anthony grimaced. “Brooke, we don’t—”
“—watch TV, I know.” Brooke rolled her eyes. “But it’s important. Listen.” She punched a button, and the person on the screen, who was standing outside a residential house in what appeared to be a middle-class neighborhood, came to life.
“…call from a concerned citizen earlier today from the mall in Overland Park led to the arrest of four men and the rescue of seven children ranging in age from twelve to seventeen who, according to the investigating officers, were allegedly victims of a sex-trafficking ring.”
Marty’s ears began to ring. She dropped onto the end of the couch and stared at the television. Anthony sat on the arm and draped his hands over her shoulders. She watched, rapt, while the reporter explained how neighbors had suspected something wasn’t quite right because they’d seen men coming and going at odd hours and the number of young people living in the house seemed to change from week to week, but no one had contacted authorities, either out of fear or an unwillingness to stick their nose into someone else’s business.
The image changed to a solid blue background with lines of text from Caller and Operator. A portion of the conversation she’d had with the woman at the other end of her 911 call came through the speakers while the lines scrolled on the screen. Marty hadn’t realized her call was being recorded. She covered her mouth with both hands, uncertain how to react. Anthony massaged her shoulders, his touch comforting.
The reporter appeared again, still positioned outside the regular-looking house in the regular-looking neighborhood. “Thanks to one person’s instinctive call to 911 with relevant information, these children are safe and will no longer be exploited. KKSP channel 14 will follow this story and bring you updates in the next weeks, so—”
Brooke clicked the remote, and the screen went blank. She grinned at Marty. “See what you did? You saw something questionable, you acted on it, and seven kids will sleep safe tonight.”
Marty leaned against Anthony’s frame, too weak to hold herself upright. “Sleep safe…” She looked up at Anthony. “Where do you suppose they are?”
He rubbed her shoulders. “I don’t know, but wherever it is, it’s got to be better than where they were until tonight.”
“But remember what Elliott said?” Marty’s throat went dry, and it hurt to force words past it. “How the police probably took Ronnie to a juvenile facility, where she’d be fed but wouldn’t find any kind of real healing? He said foster parents don’t want teenagers. The reporter said the kids were twelve to seventeen years old—not little children anymore. How can we know for sure the kids taken from that house are really in a good place right now?”
Anthony leaned down slightly and rested his chin against her temple. “I don’t know. I guess we have to pray…and trust.”
Brooke grimaced. “Well, you can pray and trust. Tomorrow I’m going to make some calls, see what I can dig up. I know a few people in the news industry, and they might talk to me off record. I’d like to know where those kids end up, too. Especially since Marty and I saw one of them.”
Marty recalled the girl’s obstinate yet helpless expression, her full lips stained with bright-red lipstick, her eyes lined with black, and her lashes clumped by mascara. A young face but a hard face, older than her years. The same thing she thought she’d seen when she looked into Ronnie’s eyes. “I’d like that, too.”
Anthony kissed her cheek. “You did real good, honey.”
Her face warmed. He’d called her honey, something he hadn’t done in at least two years. And he’d never been affectionate in front of an audience. “Thanks.”
Anthony stood and took hold of Marty’s hand. He tugged, and she rose. He wove his fingers through hers. “Brooke, do you need Marty to help you to your bed?”
She seemed to grin at their joined hands. “No, I’m fine. Chemo day’s not so bad. It’s the two-days-past-chemo that gets me. So don’t feel like you need to come around tomorrow, either, if you have other things you’d rather do.”
The heat in Marty’s face increased, but she wasn’t sure why. She took a step toward the door. “I’ll check on you in the morning after breakfast. Good night, and thanks for sharing the news story with us.”
They exited Brooke’s trailer and moved down the creaky metal stairs to the ground. Her frequent trips between the two trailers had carved a path, and with a full moon shining from a cloudless sky and her hand secure in Anthony’s, Marty easily followed the flattened grass. The breeze, slightly cool since night had fallen, rustled the leaves in the thick trees behind the trailers, and from somewhere far away a coyote released a mournful howl. She shivered.
Anthony’s fingers tightened on hers. “You’re all right.”
His deep voice, sure and warm, sent another chill through her frame, but it was the good kind of chill. A chill of awareness of him as her husband that she hadn’t experienced in months. She squeezed his hand and gave him a shy smile. He smiled in return, and something in his eyes sent another sweet shiver from her head to her heels.
They reached their trailer, and as Marty started to step up onto the porch, she remembered how her phone had interrupted her midsentence. Under the cover of darkness was a better time to ask the question she’d meant to ask earlier. She paused at the base of the steps and turned her face up to him.
“Anthony, have you decided how long we’ll stay here?”
He tipped back his head and lifted his gaze to the sky for several seconds, as if seeking guidance from the face in the moon. When he looked at her again, his expression held a mix of bewilderment and wonder. “I’ve prayed about that in my private time with God every day since you told me. Every time I go into the old bank building, I think about what will take place in there, and I’ll be honest, it bothers me. But so far God hasn’t told me to pack up and go back to Indiana. Until He does, I’ll stay here and keep working.”
She licked her lips. “Do you think…maybe…God wants you to stay until Brooke’s treatments are done?”
“Maybe. Or it could be for something else. Something we don’t know about yet that He isn’t ready to show us.”
Marty liked his use of us even though she had distanced herself from God and didn’t expect Him to communicate with her.
He released her hand and placed his palm on the small of her back. “C’mon, let’s go in. It’s late.”
He led her up the stairs and opened the door for her. Inside, he took her hand again and they moved through the dark trailer, her shoulder brushing against his upper arm with each step. Her awareness of him growing with each step. Although they’d slept in the same bed, they hadn’t been intimate since the awful day the doctor had told them they wouldn’t have children of their own. After that, the act of coupling had seemed pointless. Why bother if they couldn’t procr
eate? But now…
They removed their robes and laid them across the end of the bed, then inched around to opposite sides and climbed in. The bed frame squeaked, and Marty cringed. Such an intrusive sound when it seemed as if a ribbon of peace had wrapped itself around the two of them.
She rolled to her side facing Anthony and rested her cheek on her pillow. He lay on his back, and she admired the firm turn of his jaw in the pale moonlight streaming through the trio of windows above the headboard. Slowly he angled his head until his gaze found hers. A smile curved his lips. He raised up on his elbow and leaned in, closer and closer, until his warm breath grazed her cheek. Longing—an earthy desire that had been too long absent—welled inside her. Then his lips brushed against hers. Her body reacted in a sweet tremor, but before she could return the pressure, he shifted away from her.
“Good night, Marty.”
Unexpectedly—unexplainably—tears pricked. She swallowed. “Good night.”
He rolled over and pulled the sheet up to his chin, and soon his heavy breathing let her know he’d slipped off to sleep. But she couldn’t sleep. Visions of Ronnie, of the girl from the mall, and of Anthony’s tender face hovering close to hers kept her awake and restless well past midnight.
31
Brooke
Brooke awakened on Thursday morning with the strong need to vomit. But vomit what? Her stomach was empty.
Her fist against her clenched lips, she struggled to sit on the edge of the mattress and then rocked while wave after wave of nausea rolled through her. She broke out in a cold sweat. Panting, she pawed for the half-empty water bottle she’d left on the nightstand yesterday when she’d gone to bed. Her hand shook so badly she dribbled water down the front of her PJs, but a small amount of room-temperature water made it between her lips and slipped across her tongue. She swallowed. The liquid immediately reversed and spewed from her mouth.
She dropped the bottle next to her feet. It tipped and chugged a puddle onto the carpet. One hand cradling her stomach and the other over her mouth, she staggered to the bathroom. She bent over the toilet and heaved until she was certain her stomach was turned inside out. When the fierce bout had passed, she sank down on the edge of the tub and let her head drop back. A groan left her throat. Why hadn’t she listened to Marty and taken a nausea pill before she went to bed? Brooke had never liked to take medicine until she really needed it. Mom was always popping this or that, trying to eradicate some ailment, whether real or contrived. Well, this nausea was real and she needed the relief-giving pill, but would she be able to keep it down?
When she was a child and suffered from the stomach flu, Mom had told her, “Don’t barf in your bed or on the floor, Brooke. I can’t handle it.” But she’d also given her cups of chicken broth and put a trash can close by. Maybe that was the most sympathy Mom had known how to offer. To this day, a cup of chicken broth was her favorite comfort food.
Was there still a can or two of broth in her cupboard from her last bout of post-chemo nausea? She rose shakily, pulling in slow breaths through flared nostrils and releasing them through her pursed lips—something Marty had taught her to combat dry heaves—and headed for the bathroom door. As she passed the sink, she got a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, and the sight brought her to a halt. Dark circles under her eyes, skin that seemed to hang like the jowls on a bulldog, only a few thin tufts of bleached-blond hair still clinging to her pink scalp. She grimaced. Ugly. So very, very ugly. If the chemo wasn’t already making her sick to her stomach, the image peering back at her would be enough to make anyone gag.
Turning away from the mirror, she aimed her quivery legs for the kitchen. She braced her hand on the wall and then on the counter to keep herself upright. “Broth…Broth…” She chanted the word like an incantation. One can of organic chicken broth remained on the pantry shelf. Sighing in relief, she pulled it out and carried it to the can opener.
“A cup of broth and a Zofran…” She swallowed repeatedly while the can opener whirred. A savory scent wafted from the can, and her stomach roiled. She bent over the kitchen sink and retched so hard she feared she’d pass out. Her stomach muscles aching, she slid down the cabinet to the cool linoleum floor and sat panting, sweating, battling tears. “It’ll pass. Just like last time, it’ll pass.” The reminder did little to comfort her. Even though she recognized its truth, it didn’t help much in the here and now.
She was still sitting there when her front door opened and Marty came in carrying a napkin-covered plate. Concern pinched Marty’s face when she spotted Brooke. She plopped the plate on the counter and dropped to her knees. She rubbed Brooke’s shoulder, her hand cool and firm.
“Have you taken a nausea pill?”
Brooke shook her head. The simple motion made her world spin. She gripped her stomach.
Marty rose and opened the cabinet where Brooke had stashed her bottles of prescription meds. She shook a pill from the bottle, filled a glass with 7-Up from the refrigerator, and offered them to Brooke. “Here.”
Brooke held up her hand. “It’ll just come up again. There’s no use taking it now.”
Marty’s forehead scrunched. “At least try. It won’t get better if you do nothing.”
“It won’t get better anyway!” Brooke cringed. She’d sounded so harsh and unappreciative. Like her mother. She grabbed Marty’s wrist and squeezed. “I’m sorry. I’m not a very good sick person.”
“It’s all right. You’ve got good reason to be grumpy.” Marty set the glass and pill on the counter and caught hold of Brooke’s hands. She pulled, bringing Brooke to her feet, and escorted her to the living room.
Brooke flopped onto the middle of the sofa, rested her head on the plump backrest, and covered her eyes with her arm. She groaned. A hand touched her knee, and she lowered her arm and peeked at Marty through slitted lids. The compassion in her friend’s eyes stabbed like a knife. She didn’t deserve any kindness. She closed her eyes. “Leapin’ lizards…”
“I’m sorry you feel so lousy.”
“Me, too.”
“I wish you’d try taking a pill.”
“I know.”
Silence fell, during which Brooke held her stomach, practiced the breathing technique Marty had given her, and pleaded with her stomach to behave.
The sofa cushion shifted, and Brooke opened one eye. Marty was heading for the kitchen, arms swinging, black ribbons fluttering on her shoulders. She poured the chicken broth into a saucepan and set it on the stove, then dug out the loaf of cinnamon quick bread made from almond flour and cut off a slice. She popped it in the toaster and turned to the refrigerator. Her gaze whisked across the room and met Brooke’s.
A bashful smile bloomed on Marty’s sympathetic face. “Do you want some music?”
The offer touched Brooke deeply. Marty could get herself in trouble with her fellowship for intentionally listening to what the leaders deemed inappropriate music. She should say no, but she needed the distraction too much to be magnanimous. She nodded.
Marty took the farmers’-market, grass-fed, five-dollars-per-half-pound butter from the refrigerator before crossing to the little basket that held the remotes for the TV and stereo. She lifted the one for the stereo and pushed the power button. Cat Stevens’s voice came through the speakers as the toaster popped up the slice of bread. Marty dropped the remote into the basket and returned to the kitchen.
While Marty buttered the bread and checked the broth, Brooke listened to Cat sing a ballad about the wind, words, and not making the same mistakes again. The CD ran through its songs, diverting Brooke’s attention from the awful feeling in her gut and the weakness of her body. She managed to nibble a few bites of the bread and sipped half a cup of broth, swallowing a Zofran with the liquid. Then she stretched out on the sofa with a small waste can nearby, just in case, and listened to Cat croon “Morning Has Broken,” a gentle ballad that alway
s soothed the edges of her frayed nerves.
Marty had been straightening things in the kitchen, but while “Morning Has Broken” played, she stood still and stared at the stereo. Her concentration tickled Brooke, and she couldn’t resist teasing, “You’re not gonna turn into a Cat Stevens fan, are you?”
Marty blinked twice and then laughed, self-conscious. “I love cats, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Brooke gave a weak wave toward the stereo. “The artist who’s singing. His name is Cat Stevens.”
Marty picked up the dishrag and ran it over the countertop. “Is he…a Christian?”
Brooke shrugged. “I have no idea. Why?”
“I’ve heard the poem before. Our deacon’s wife read it during one of our Bible study times. But it has more stanzas than he sang.”
“Oh yeah?” Brooke rolled sideways and curled into a ball. The AC was a little too much this morning.
“Yes. I’ll see if I can find the whole thing and read it to you. It’s really pretty.”
Brooke shivered. “Okay.”
Marty bustled over, yanking the afghan from the back of the chair as she came. She draped it over Brooke, then sat on the edge of the sofa and smoothed her hand on Brooke’s head. She couldn’t smooth her hair. There wasn’t enough left to smooth. The thought put a bitter taste in Brooke’s mouth.
Marty’s warm fingers ran lightly from Brooke’s temple to the nape of her neck. “I know you feel really bad, but sometimes when I’m blue, it helps to think happy thoughts. Like about all the successes you’ve had and how beautiful this place will be when it’s all done. I really admire you for all you’ve accomplished. You’re so successful, Brooke. You should be proud of yourself.”
Brooke scrunched her face and shifted the afghan until it covered her chin. “I’m not successful.”
“Sure you are! You’ve—”
Brooke snorted. “Okay, I’ve had a hand in rebuilding nearly a hundred properties, making them shine again. I’ve made money—as much or more than I dreamed of having when I was a kid living in one seedy rental after another.” A lump filled her throat and she swallowed hard. “But when it comes right down to it, when I leave this earth, who’s gonna remember me? Nobody. What am I taking with me that matters? Nothing.”
Ours for a Season Page 24