The Widow's Cabin

by L. G. Davis

  30

  We’re eating breakfast in a booth at the Oak Diner instead of inside our motel room.

  The low “yummy” noises Clark is making while finishing up his pancakes and bacon warm my heart. Taking him out for breakfast was a good idea.

  Now that Cole is in police custody, the police are probably occupied with his case instead of searching for a woman who hasn’t been seen in a year. I now feel safer going outside more often.

  I had to get Clark out of the motel room. After five days indoors, the walls were starting to close in on us and Clark was becoming increasingly irritable.

  Even though I don’t think I’m the police’s highest priority right now, I’m still glad the restaurant is not packed. There are only a handful of guests around the scratched tables. We still need to be careful to keep our identity a secret.

  When we entered the restaurant, I was still able to breathe, but now that my eyes are glued on the small propped-up TV, I have suddenly forgotten how to.

  Thankfully, Clark is sitting with his back to the TV, otherwise he would have seen his grandfather’s face on the news. I’m still surprised at how I managed to shield him for this long. Sooner or later, he’s going to face the truth of how damaged his family really is.

  But not yet. Not today.

  The other customers are staring at the TV as well, some shaking their heads when they take in the breaking news update scrolling at the bottom of the screen.

  After being released on bail, Cole Wilton has disappeared.

  “Mommy, I want more breakfast.” Clark holds up his dull metal fork.

  I stare at him, my head spinning. Then I shake myself into action and jump up from my chair.

  “We need to leave.” It’s a good thing we’re seated not too far from the door. We’ll be able to make a quick escape before Clark sees Cole’s face and shouts out that it’s his grandfather. That would certainly get the other diners’ attention and our cover would be blown.

  “I don’t want to go,” Clark whines, biting on a piece of crunchy bacon. “I want to finish my bacon.”

  “Sweetie, that’s your last piece. You can eat it on the way to the car.” I hate that, yet again, I’m about to drag him out of a restaurant without an explanation, but I have no choice.

  While he continues to chew his food, ignoring my request, I reach into my purse for money. I drop a twenty-dollar bill next to the vase of fake red roses.

  Feeling guilty, but also losing my patience, I reach for Clark’s arm. He yanks it from my grip and his eyes flash at me. An invisible hand closes around my throat because for a split second, his eyes remind me of his grandfather’s.

  I jolt back a little before moving forward again. He is my son. He has Brett’s and Cole’s blood, but he will never turn out like them. I will make sure of it.

  “Why do we always have to go early?” Clark juts out his bottom lip.

  “I’m sorry, but sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do. And we stayed long enough for you to finish your food.” I search my brain for something to comfort him. “We can play some more games at the motel.”

  “I hate the motel. It’s stupid.”

  “Don’t say that.” I reach for his arm again and pull him out of his chair, still looking at the TV out of the corner of my eye. He continues to fight me off, but I’m determined to get us out of the place.

  “Clark, please, do what Mommy is telling you. I’ll explain later.” I won’t be able to explain the situation to him, but there’s nothing else I can find to say. I feel as though I have been repeating myself over and over again, making him the same dry excuses, feeding him the same old lies, withholding information.

  “I hate you.” He pushes away from me, but he doesn’t sit back down. Instead, he storms out of the restaurant.

  I’m reeling with both hurt and relief. It’s amazing how crushing a few simple words can be.

  From a distance, I see the waitress approaching our table. I give her a small wave and she nods after she sees the money on the table.

  During the drive back to the motel, Clark refuses to speak to me. It kills me inside, but I understand.

  He barely speaks for the rest of the day, and at bedtime, he goes to bed without a fight. He’s hurting and I don’t know how to help him heal without telling him the truth.

  As soon as he’s asleep, I switch on the TV and slide to the edge of the bed, blocking his view in case he opens his eyes.

  Cole really did escape and there are suspicions going around that he might have skipped the country. I wouldn’t be surprised. His whole empire is crashing down because of his own sins. He doesn’t have anything holding him back in the US, and he certainly has the resources to hide in another country.

  I bury my hand in my hair when the reporter repeats all the things Cole and Brett have done to their employees over the years. Every word is like a knife to my heart.

  I bite my bottom lip, trying to breathe, to manage the emotions raging through me. How could I have been so wrong about my husband?

  My mind takes me back to something he had said a few days after we got engaged, the night Cole punched him in front of me. He revealed to me that as a kid, one of his father’s favorite forms of punishment was to lock him in a cupboard, sometimes for hours. He also loved to scare him. Brett was terrified of snakes, and that fear started when his father brought a snake into the house one day and put it in a glass case in Brett’s room. Apparently, he wanted him to toughen up, to be a man. He was only thirteen, and the snake spent the night in his bedroom. When he cried, his father called him weak and pulled out his belt to punish him for that weakness.

  No wonder Brett was obedient to his father even in his adult years. He still lived with the fear of his father and did everything he demanded of him, just like he had done as a child. He also told me that when he turned eighteen, his father’s gift to him was a visit to a strip club. At the time, I was disgusted and didn’t want to hear more. I wish I had dug for more information, maybe he would have revealed the secrets they kept. But what could I have done? Like Brett, I was terrified of Cole. How could I have known that he groomed his son into becoming a rapist like him?

  “I’m sorry, Mommy,” Clark’s sleepy voice makes me jump. “Sorry I was bad to you.”

  I switch the TV off and crawl back into bed next to him.

  “You’re not bad, Superboy.” I kiss him on his warm cheek. “I’m sorry for taking you out of the restaurant before you finished eating.”

  Honestly, we could have stayed a little longer. I had panicked and the only thing on my mind was to flee. It’s an automatic reaction that has kept us safe for this long. Every time I see Cole’s face, every muscle in my body prepares to run.

  This time, I guess I needed to be alone, too, to process the news without Clark watching me from across the table. Hiding my pain from him is one of the hardest things I have ever done.

  “I love you, Mommy,” he whispers and draws closer to me, burying his face in my chest as he used to do when he was a baby.

  “I love you much more.” I close my eyes and rest my chin on the top of his head. “Forever together?” I ask.

  “Forever and ever,” he whispers.

  Warmth spreads through my chest, soothing some of the cracks on my heart. But more cracks are still appearing.

  I wish I could watch TV again, to follow the story, but there’s really not much to see anymore. It will be a while before they find Cole. If they ever do.

  At the back of my tortured mind, I wonder what I will tell Clark one day when he finally grows up enough to understand the crimes committed by both his father and grandfather. What if the fear that he might inherit their behavior becomes stronger?

  I squeeze my eyes shut to force the thought from my mind. I refuse to believe it. Clark will be a good man because I will be the one raising him, not those monsters.

  I choose to believe that one day the truth of what really happened to Brett and Janella will be revealed and
Clark and I can finally live normal lives. If it doesn’t happen, I might not be able to repair the damage our situation has already caused him.

  31

  It’s been almost a week and Cole still hasn’t been found.

  It’s definitely enough time for him to ensure he’s never found again.

  My hope is dwindling by the minute. He could be anywhere, doing God knows what, possibly continuing his dark deeds. His rotten obsession is not something he will be able to shake off.

  I’m not the only person disappointed that the cops have not found him. The residents of Fort Haven are so furious that they are taking matters into their own hands.

  Our motel room is dark, but the orange flames on the screen are splashing it with a warm glow.

  Fort Haven’s Black Oyster Hotel is burning to the ground. Firefighters surround the place, but the building that had once boasted power and luxury is turning to ashes faster than it can be rescued.

  In some way, I feel a great sense of relief. The place held too many terrible memories, and it’s now being destroyed, set on fire by protesters who had camped outside for days.

  People are angry that one of their own has shattered the safe image of Fort Haven. Parents are afraid for their children. The residents are going to extremes to demand that something like this never happens again.

  I can’t help but wonder what Marjorie thinks now. Does she still believe Cole is innocent? Is she still determined to hold on to the lies he asked her to tell? She had said in an interview that only a guilty person would run. That’s exactly what Cole is doing.

  I tried to call her yesterday, to try and convince her to go to the police, to tell them what Cole paid her to do for him, but she hung up the moment she heard my voice.

  The story about the murders has not been mentioned yet. I’m wondering whether the police are trying to keep it quiet to keep Cole from running harder.

  Wherever he is, he’s probably watching the news. It brings me satisfaction to imagine the pain on his face as he watches everything he has built literally turn to ashes. Of course, he has hotels in other states around the country, but the hotel in Fort Haven was dear to his heart.

  Or maybe he doesn’t even care. He could be watching the news with a sick grin on his face, possibly glad that the fire is destroying whatever evidence was left.

  When my phone vibrates next to me, I flinch. No one has called me for quite some time.

  I consider not picking up, but when I glance at the screen, I recognize the number.

  It’s Tasha. Why is she calling after all this time, and so late?

  The phone keeps vibrating. If I’m not careful, the sound will wake Clark.

  I switch off the TV and tiptoe into the bathroom with it glued to my ear.

  “Zoe,” Tasha says. Her kind voice wraps me in a silken cocoon of warmth. I didn’t realize how much I missed being in touch with another adult, someone who cares. I kept hoping Mrs. Foster would call to find out how we’re doing, maybe ask to speak to Clark, but she never did.

  “I’m sorry for calling late. I didn’t want to disturb you, but there’s something I think you should know.” She goes quiet and continues in a low voice. “Mrs. Foster has passed away...heart attack.”

  A ball of shock hits my core. “Wh… what?” My mouth is so dry the word comes out distorted. “When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday morning. She was found by a neighbor. No one knows how long she has been dead.”

  The idea that Mrs. Foster died all alone in her house tears at my insides. I start to cry, holding onto the phone, afraid to let go, desperate for whatever comfort Tasha can offer me from a distance.

  “I feel responsible.” Tears are drowning my words. “It’s my fault.”

  “Why would you say that? She died of a heart attack. No one is responsible for that.”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong, that finding out my secret probably killed her. Losing Clark could have been more painful for her than I ever imagined.

  I lean against the cool tiled wall. “How about–how about Ronan?”

  “From what I heard, he’s still in prison. It doesn’t seem as if he’ll come out anytime soon. Apparently, he committed quite a few crimes in the short time he was out. Mrs. Foster had no other family members, so we will be arranging her funeral. I was wondering if... Would you like to come?”

  I can’t answer the question. What do I tell her? The funeral will probably be filled with people who will recognize me from when I lived in the cabin. Her neighbors–who saw me dropping off Clark at her house–will probably be there.

  But Mrs. Foster was like family to me and Clark. Will I ever be able to forgive myself if I don’t go? She had done so much for us. Plus, wouldn’t it be selfish of me to deny Clark the opportunity to say a proper goodbye to the woman who had loved him like her own grandson?

  “Okay,” I whisper. Since Cole’s arrest, my face hasn’t been plastered all over the television and papers. Maybe I can get away with this. “When is the funeral?” I ask.

  “A week from Saturday. At the Willow Creek Memorial Cemetery at 2:00 p.m. I’m sure Mrs. Foster would have wanted to see you there. She really liked you and she was devastated when you left.”

  It’s clear that Mrs. Foster did not tell her what she discovered about me, otherwise, Tasha would probably turn her back on me too.

  “And Zoe, it will be really nice to see you again.”

  I swallow a sob. “It will be nice to see you too.”

  When I hang up, my hands are shaking, and I sink down to the floor. My fingertips pressed against my eyes, I remember the old woman who had been kind to me from the moment I met her, the woman I had betrayed because I withheld the truth from her.

  It’s too painful for me to think I could have contributed to her death. I have to hang on to what Tasha said to prevent the guilt from eating me alive. I convince myself that she was probably more devastated about Ronan than about us. He was her son, her real family. We were just strangers passing through her life.

  I told Tasha that I looked forward to seeing her, but she won’t get to see me close up. Clark and I won’t get close enough for the other mourners to see us. It’s safer that way. If by any chance Ronan is released from prison to attend his mother’s funeral, who knows what he might do?

  He had already told me to stay away. He could be the one who made his mother suspicious of me. I can’t be sure that Mrs. Foster didn’t reveal my real identity to him, even by mistake.

  But I do owe it to Mrs. Foster to show up, to give our final goodbye, to thank her silently for everything she’s done for us, for the protection she gave us for all those months.

  It will be hard not to be able to speak to Tasha at the funeral. For her to call me and tell me about Mrs. Foster’s death means she cares more than I want her to. I did everything to push her away, and yet she kept coming back.

  I never wanted to go back there again, but life has a way of pulling the carpet right from underneath my feet and forcing me in a direction I don’t want to go.

  I weep for Mrs. Foster as if she was my mother and not someone I’d only known for a few months. In my mind, I can see her eyes brightening up whenever Clark ran into her arms.

  I remember the sound of her voice, warm and kind before she knew the truth about us. I also remember how she had sounded the day she asked us to leave, so cold and broken. It hurts that her last words to me were drenched in disappointment and pain.

  I sneak out of the bathroom and get back into bed. As soon as he feels me beside him, Clark moves closer and curls his little body into mine, but he doesn’t wake up.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper into the night. I don’t know what I’m sorry for or who I’m apologizing to. Is it to Mrs. Foster? Is it to Clark? Is it to myself? Is it to all three?

  Either way, the words come out and they hold so much meaning. I certainly need to forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made, the biggest one of them being that I entered Brett’s life.


  But there’s one reason why I don’t regret it completely. My son was worth all the pain.

  32

  I’ve made an effort to camouflage myself as best I can. I have my dark glasses on, a cap pulled over my forehead, and dark clothes that don’t scream “look at me”. Sometimes I wonder if the sunglasses and cap make me look more suspicious. But being outside with nothing to hide behind makes me nervous.

  Even though Clark looks much different than a year ago, I still asked him to wear a baseball cap. At first, he refused to put it on, but then I reminded him that we’re still playing the undercover spies game. He took the cap but refused the sunglasses.

  Telling him that Mrs. Foster had died was hard. Strangely, he seemed more upset about her death than Brett’s. After hearing the news, he withdrew into himself for a full hour, only speaking when I spoke to him.

  Finally, he came to me for a hug and asked me if Mrs. Foster is now in heaven with daddy. I said yes, even though I hoped that was not the case. After what he did, I no longer believe Brett deserves to be in heaven.

  This morning, Clark woke up excited to go to Mrs. Foster’s funeral. I guess it was the idea of going out that brought on the excitement. I didn’t blame him. Being indoors is driving us both crazy. I hate that he will only be able to say goodbye to Mrs. Foster from a distance. But it’s the much safer option.

  “Why can’t we go to where the people are?” he asks when he notices that we’re not getting out of the car. “I want to see Mrs. Foster.”

  I look at his face for a long time while searching for an answer. “Those people you see are Mrs. Foster’s family. We were only her friends.”

  Like I used to do as a kid, I secretly cross the fingers of my left hand, the ones that are out of his view, hoping he won’t throw a fit and insist on us going to the grave.

  I’m relieved when he gets back to driving the train Tasha gave him across the back of the passenger’s seat.