On her knees, Darcy peeked over the gate, like when she was little and needed to stand tiptoe to see over the counter at the ice-cream shop. “Under the floorboards.” She laughed at the bafflement on her mother’s face. “Just some toys Troy and I hid.” Then she added for Aidan’s benefit: “A long time ago.”
Mom started up the ladder.
“Toolbox is in my truck, if you need something to pry up the boards,” Aidan called from below.
She’d never needed tools in the past, but you never knew. Maybe her fingertips had grown too wide to fit between the planks. “Knock yourself out.”
Darcy was already in the corner, bent beneath the sloping ceiling and the skylight’s heat. For old-time’s sake, she closed her eyes and said the special incantation she and Troy had made up. “Shadows and angels.” She dug her not-too-big fingertips through the inch-wide crack, yanked, and then waited while the cobweb dust settled. She spotted the crafted toys right away alongside a completed Lego creation and the tin of Pick-Up Sticks she’d once spent months looking for.
Darcy popped open the cardboard end and looked inside the cylinder. Not a single painted stick, just a folded piece of paper. That didn’t make any sense at all. Odder still, when she slid the paper from its housing, a soft puff of musk and citrus escaped. She smoothed the paper, and the Daddy-scent blossomed. Nausea squirted from her body’s center and trickled down her limbs.
Darcy stared at the creased verse, her chest tightening with every stanza. She couldn’t stop herself from reading through the entire poem, even though she knew every single line of the poem Daddy had made her memorize.
“You shouldn’t read that.” Mom’s voice, so soft now, speaking as if each word caused her pain, the way she’d spoken on the day Daddy had died.
Darcy felt her mother kneel down beside her, and she glanced over her shoulder. Mom was clasping her hands prayerlike before her.
“You know the poem?” Darcy asked, although she already knew the answer. Only thoughts of Daddy at his worst could bend her mother that way.
Mom lowered her eyelids.
Darcy kept her gaze on the Daddy-scented paper, willing the verse to vanish. For the first time, she realized how much she hated that Shakespeare poem, had always hated its scary-sick warning Daddy made her keep from Mom. No longer mourn for me when I am dead. The sharing of the poem and the ritual recital had weighted her with first dread, and then guilt. The shame of keeping a dangerous secret that wasn’t really a secret, just a twisted lie. For so long, she’d thought keeping Daddy’s secret about the morbid Shakespeare sonnet had maybe not caused, but contributed to his death. Turned out, Daddy’s game was all about testing her loyalty.
She never could have saved his life.
“You can tell me how you know about the poem,” Darcy said. “I already know all the bad stuff. I saw all the bad stuff.”
Mom sighed.
“Please.” Darcy took a cue from their earlier conversation and flipped it around to the reverse side. “You’re right. Sometimes imagining is worse. I just want the truth.” That should do it. Use Mom’s recently spouted wisdom and toss in The Truth, her life’s mission.
Mom laughed weakly, as if she detected Darcy’s less than covert debate methods, but she gave in anyway. “It was an unhealthy obsession. He read it over and over, memorized it, decided it was all about him. He even wanted me to say it with him. No way I would go along with that one and become an enabler to his self-perpetuating darkness.”
So Darcy was an enabler. And a second-choice enabler at that. They’d never shared a just between them poem. Daddy had saddled her with an obsession Mom knew all about, words so tortuous he’d hidden them beneath the floorboards. Daddy should’ve known telltale hearts never remained silent.
Darcy handed the poem to her mother. “ ‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead than you shall hear the surly sullen bell give warning to the world that I am fled—’ ”
“Did you just memorize that?”
“ ‘From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.’ ”
“Angel, I am so sorry.”
She couldn’t stop; she had to get it out. Her throat burned, as if she’d swallowed poison. “ ‘Nay if you read this line, remember not the hand that writ it, for I love you so.’ ”
“Damn him.”
“ ‘For I love you so.’ ” Darcy stopped, suddenly wishing for a dictionary. She questioned the meaning of everything she’d believed before this moment. The father who’d claimed to love her had sucked her into his sick, paranoid obsession and called it love.
And she’d believed him.
Chapter 17
A wood knot on the outside of the bathroom door stared at Laura, taking on human characteristics in the low light of the upstairs hallway. “Are you all right?” Laura asked Darcy through the closed door, although unmistakable retching sounds had precipitated her knee-jerk question.
“Great. Just tossed my cookies.” Darcy laughed, the kind of giggle more appropriate for late nights turned punchy than the middle of the afternoon. “So that’s where that saying comes from.”
“Guess so.” Laura splayed her fingers wide against the door, a poor substitute for stroking her daughter’s hair. “Daddy loved you. What he did doesn’t change that. But he never should’ve asked you to keep a secret from me. That put you in an unfair position.”
“I’m not feeling so good.”
“You shouldn’t—” The shushing sound of running water silenced Laura voice. Feel guilty.
“Brushing my teeth,” Darcy said.
She sighed and leaned against the wall. Back off, Laura. She could open the unlocked door and barge in on her daughter, insist that Darcy confide in her and accept her help through the latest Jack-related trauma. But getting to the other side of the door wouldn’t break down the real barrier between them. She could lead her daughter to conversation, but she couldn’t make her talk.
Laura had always tried to strike a balance between telling her children the truth about their father’s illness and shielding them from the effects of such knowledge. How could she have known he’d enlisted their daughter to keep part of the truth from her? Even now, diplomacy was crucial. Shame the parent; shame the child. Laura couldn’t exactly tell Darcy every unfiltered thought she was having about her father. The information Darcy had revealed enlarged his diagnosis to include sociopath. If Laura had known Jack was making Darcy feel responsible for his emotional and physical well-being, Laura would’ve put a stop to his inappropriate behavior. She would’ve stepped between Jack and Darcy, and offered herself as a sounding board for the dark poem he’d wielded against their daughter. Words as weapons.
She’d thought incorrectly that the relationship with her husband would end with his death, his self-inflicted one-way road trip. The ultimate book tour. How could a dead man stir up such trouble? Hadn’t he caused enough problems when he was alive?
Laura could never really relax unless Jack was sound asleep. Even then, she’d move cautiously, tiptoe downstairs to read or fix a snack for herself. If he awoke in the middle of the night, who knew what reassurances he’d require, how much he’d expect from her? Talk therapy, physical therapy, sex therapy. Jack knew no boundaries. Hang on. Reverse that notion. She knew no boundaries. You showed others how to treat you.
A creak from behind her, and Laura turned toward the stairway.
“Laura?” Aidan walked through the upstairs hallway, the sight of him incompatible with the second floor of her house. He was carrying steaming tea in one of her pink mugs.
Laura had left Darcy for two minutes and had raced downstairs to set peppermint tea in a mug, water in the kettle, and—
She held her hand over her mouth. “I forgot—I don’t know how—I didn’t even hear the whistle.”
“Done it myself a few times.” He dunked the tea bag, then handed her the mug. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to see how she’s doing.”
Ten minutes ago, Laura and Darcy had flown fr
om Aidan’s bedroom loft to their upstairs bathroom. Laura didn’t think Aidan deserved a mess in his bathroom. Or a cookie tossing.
The toilet flushed.
“She’s been better,” Laura said.
“She vomited?” Aidan asked, and Laura nodded.
Aidan’s gaze went to the door. “She’s still upset I’m living in her dad’s studio.”
“Not exactly.” Darcy had been worried seeing her dad’s studio might be weird, and it turned out she was right, but in a way neither of them could’ve predicted.
“This then?” From Aidan’s back pocket, he slid out the folded poem. “Dark stuff. Jack wrote this?”
“William Shakespeare.”
“A tragedy.” Aidan started to unfold the poem, and Laura held up a hand. “Do me a favor and burn it,” she said.
Aidan slid the paper back in his pocket, his mouth firmed with what Laura imagined were unasked questions about the mysterious sonnet hidden beneath his floorboards. “The poem—Jack used it as a weapon,” she began.
Laura gnawed her lip, and Aidan waited for her to gather her thoughts.
She stepped away from the bathroom and waved Aidan nearer to her, lowered her voice so Darcy wouldn’t hear through the door. The best she could, Laura tried to explain to Aidan what made so little sense to her. About the poem and what it meant to Jack. About how he’d tried to use it against Laura. About how, when that hadn’t worked, Jack had whittled away at their daughter, a roundabout way to get to Laura.
The whole time Laura told the tale, Aidan stood perfectly still. His head angled to the side, and he looked at her as if she were the most important person in the world.
“And that’s my sad little story,” Laura said. “One of many.” Laura tried a smile. Clutching the mug, her fingers trembled, a dead giveaway to her mood. Tea splashed onto her shoe.
Aidan wrapped his hands around hers. He steadied the mug, steadied her. “Why don’t we give this to Darcy while there’s still some left?” he said, and Laura grinned.
“Darcy, can I come in?” she called through the door.
“It’s your funeral,” Darcy said, her voice a muffled croak.
Laura opened the door and found her daughter kneeling over the toilet, white-faced and staring into the bowl. She crouched down next to her, set down the tea, and gentled a hand onto her back. “Oh, Darcy.”
“Can I help?” Aidan asked from the doorway. Laura nodded, and he entered the room.
“I want a washcloth, Mom,” Darcy said, and the effort sent her over the edge. Dry heaves growled from her gaping mouth.
“I’m on it.” Aidan found a washcloth on the rack and waited for the water to run ice cold.
Darcy fell back, then groaned. Her eyes watered. She rested her head against the wall, and her eyes drifted shut.
Aidan wrung out the washcloth, folded it in thirds. He bent down and smoothed the cooling cloth across her daughter’s forehead. His eyes softened toward Darcy.
Aidan had a gift, the gift of caring.
Darcy blinked her eyes open. When she shifted to rise, Aidan took her hand and helped her to standing. Laura imagined Aidan at the hospital, tending women with sick and broken bodies. She imagined those same women, pain-stricken and scared, falling a little in love with Aidan.
“I’m going to lie down,” Darcy told Laura. “Can you wake me for dinner? I’ll do my homework later.”
Laura nodded. “Sure, angel. Whatever you want.” How could she make up for how Jack had tormented their daughter, how he was likely still tormenting her?
Laura didn’t mind nursing the kids back to health when they got sick. Preparing endless cups of Jell-O, bowls of soup, and cooling compresses made her feel useful while their bodies healed themselves. But she’d always wished for another set of helping hands. She’d always wished for a man who’d listen to her sad little stories, instead of creating them.
Chapter 18
The sound of her gasp jolted Laura awake. The same three times a week godforsaken night terror she’d been having for a month.
Fully clothed, she sprawled on top of the covers, her head crooked at an unnatural angle. The nightlight’s glow didn’t squelch the image of blood on her hands, the thick taste in her mouth, or the pressure behind her eyes. She went into the bathroom and threw on the cold water, then gargled the rancid taste from her mouth till her tongue throbbed with mint. When the water turned to ice, she washed the image of spectral blood from her vision. The pressure behind her eyes required a different sort of release valve.
A peek into Troy’s room confirmed he was asleep. She could hardly believe he was the same boy whose crying jag, exactly one week ago, had kept the house awake through the night. Earlier today, she’d even considered canceling his appointment with Dr. Harvey. But then, she’d thought of the many well-meaning acquaintances that asked her how the kids were doing. She could live without the pity in their eyes, but it reminded her of what she knew too well. The fact bipolar disorder could crop up anywhere between early adolescence and young adulthood necessitated another decade of her vigilance.
In Darcy’s room, Laura gave thanks that young ones recovered from physical illness so quickly. By six o’clock, Darcy’s color had returned to normal. She’d sprinted down to dinner, taken seconds of the spaghetti pie, and gulped three glasses of water before embarking on a steam-the-paint-off-the-bathroom-walls shower.
Laura leaned over her daughter’s sleeping form. “I’d do anything to keep you safe,” she said, reiterating her oft-whispered promise. She thought first of how Jack had coerced Darcy into keeping his dangerous secret, and then she thought about Nick. The way he’d straight-faced lied to her after Darcy sneaked out of the house to be with him sent up warning flares. That boy was not good for her daughter.
Downstairs, Laura nestled into her office enclave, settled into her desk chair. The desk lamp spotlighted her free-writing journal; a near-iridescent light reflected off the blank pages and warmed her face. Too edgy to plot fiction, Laura unleashed her real-life worries onto the page. Her purple pen sailed across the pages.
The journal was like a truth detector. She didn’t need to mince words when she admitted how she felt about Jack: angry, or about her children: protective. But when she wrote the word Aidan, she stopped, her hand hanging in midair.
A few months ago, Laura had promised Maggie and Elle that after Jack’s one-year anniversary, she’d consider dating again. She’d thought, maybe she’d go on a few dates to placate her friends and let them fix her up with Sean, the Greenboro police officer with the bluer than blue eyes, or Carl, Maggie’s widower friend from New Boston. A date meant nothing. She wouldn’t even have to tell the kids, unless one date led to another, unless dating turned into a lasting relationship. And what were the chances of that?
Elle had burned through so many relationships that whenever she told Laura about a new guy, she’d refer to him as her future ex-boyfriend. Most romantic relationships failed.
Earlier tonight, Troy had knocked on Aidan’s door to share his book on New Hampshire rail trails. Darcy was harder to win over. But the way Aidan had helped Darcy, the way he did not judge …
Laura could never date a man who was developing a relationship with her children, much less date a man who was living in her house. She snapped the journal shut.
With her gaze unfocused, she let her mind wander to the character sketch she’d written weeks ago about a girl dreaming of an authentic life. A girl hiding—
The studio door creaked open, and Laura startled, held her hand to her heart. Aidan’s laundry basket peeked into the mudroom and shouldn’t have come as a surprise. She’d told him the laundry room was open for business any time of day or night. The hum of the washing machine and dryer, and the tumble of clothes worked like a white-noise lullaby for her and the kids.
“Hey, there, my insomnia friend,” Aidan said.
Aidan’s presence filled the room, and Laura sat up a little taller, breathed a little deeper. “Hey,
yourself.” Aidan’s lingering gaze stripped away artifice, and she flushed, as if he’d read his name in her journal. As if he were pushing her to complete the entry and name her feelings for him.
“How’s Darcy doing?”
“One hundred percent recovered,” she said.
“Glad to hear it.” He stepped closer and glanced at the journal on her desk and the pen she was clutching between her fingers. “Don’t let me interrupt your midnight musings,” he said, and dashed into the guest bathroom with his wash, leaving an empty space beside her.
Behind the closed bathroom door, the washing machine’s rusty door squealed open. Seconds later, the ancient machine rumbled to life, and Aidan emerged sans laundry basket. He headed for his apartment’s open door.
“No guitar playing tonight?” she blurted out before he could walk through the door.
Aidan turned back around. “Nah, not tonight. Music’s the thing after a long day at work. Didn’t need it tonight.”
“Too mellow to create?” she asked, thinking of Jack’s creative process, thinking of her own. Too mellow posed the same challenge as too edgy.
“I’ve never thought of it that way.” He grinned. “Whether I’ve had a good or bad day, the guitar unravels me.”
“You use it to process life.”
He considered her, then shook his head. “Don’t need to process life. More like, life inspires the music. Work’s part of life.”
“You love your job.”
“It’s goofy, but I do.” He angled his feet toward her and leaned against the bookcase. His gaze turned thoughtful, and he drew his forefinger across his bottom lip, a gesture she’d noticed this afternoon. Once again, the gesture drew her to his mouth and made her want to press her lips against his inspired half smile. “Whether it’s been a good or a bad day, I love it.”
“Tell me about a good day.” Laura dropped her purple pen into the mason jar at the back of her desk. She rested her elbow on the desktop, her chin in her hand.
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