A Kingsbury Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  “No!” Amanda clasped her hand over her mouth. She didn’t want a pill or a shot like she’d gotten the other nights. She bit her lip and lay still, as quiet as she could. But she kept her eyes wide open, and felt her arms and legs tremble as the Graystone shadows came closer.

  Please, God, make her go away! Suddenly the shadows were still again.

  In the silent darkness, other thoughts began to take shape in her mind. She was seven years old, and no one wanted her. No one at all. Oh, Kathy loved her. She believed that with all her heart. But Kathy didn’t have room for her.

  Sometimes on nights like this she thought about all the people in the world—or just in Ohio—and how many families could take in a seven-year-old girl. There were lots of families. Lots of them! But no one had come forward to claim her.

  Because no one wanted her.

  There must be something in me that people hate. Especially people like Mrs. Graystone. It had been different when Amanda was little, when she lived with Mr. and Mrs. Brownell, before they went to heaven. But now that she was older, there must have been something in her smile or her eyes, something she couldn’t see when she looked in the mirror, but something other people saw. Something that made people turn away from her.

  Otherwise why had she spent time in so many different foster homes? People traded her in like a doll no one wanted to play with anymore. When they didn’t get tired of her, they hurt her. Like the farmhouse boys and that awful Mrs. Graystone.

  The girl squeezed her arms around her ribs and winced in pain. It still hurt, and that made her mad. She had something wrong with her for sure. Something other people wanted to beat out of her.

  The girl thought about it long and hard. It was probably something deep inside her, maybe something that came from her heart. The longer she thought about it the more the shadows began to move again, taunting, threatening …

  Mrs. Graystone was in the hospital somewhere. Amanda didn’t know where—hiding in the corner, maybe—but she was sure the woman was there. Wherever she was, it was close. She was probably just waiting for the nurses to take a break so she could sneak into the room and finish Amanda off.

  The shadows moved more quickly now, and Amanda put her hand over her mouth so no one would hear her scream. Screaming never stopped the shadows anyway. As the tears came stronger and harder, it dawned on her the reason people hated her. It all started back when she was born. Because if her own mother had been willing to leave her alone in the world, how could anyone else ever love her?

  As quietly as she could, without being heard by the nurses or Mrs. Graystone—wherever she was hiding—the girl began to call for the one who could make a difference, the woman who could make everything right.

  “Mommy, where are you? I need you, Mommy. I’m here. I love you. I’m not mad at you for giving me away. I just want to be with you. Please come and find me, Mommy. Please. Mommy … Mommy … I need you … ”

  Her whispered pleas continued until sometime in the early morning hours when, despite her tears, she fell asleep still afraid and drifted to a place where shadows prevailed and Mrs. Graystone ruled.

  The place of Amanda’s very existence.

  Three hundred miles away, from inside an unmarked police car, two Cleveland officers watched a strange transaction taking place in the back of Topper’s Pop Bar. A blue van had backed up to a storage unit, and now four men worked quickly to unload what seemed to be more than thirty boxes.

  The officers were there for one reason: to arrest John McFadden for attempted murder in the beating of Ben Stovall the week before. But they had taken the unmarked squad car because of something the department had suspected for more than a year. Drugs had been infiltrating the south side of Cleveland for months—large quantities of marijuana and cocaine that were making their way into the hands of dozens of small-time dealers. On more than one occasion the bar had come up during questioning. But police never gained enough information to make a bust or even be granted a search warrant.

  Officers routinely drove by the bar looking for suspicious activity. And though plenty of obvious criminal actions took place—public drunkenness, assault and battery, drunken driving—none of them had anything to do with drug smuggling.

  But now, late on this dark Thursday evening in September, the officers were nearly certain they were witnessing a drug operation, and that raised an interesting dilemma. Should they carry out the arrest as planned and risk frightening away the proof of their longtime suspicions? Or would it be better to approach the men working around the van, guns raised, and then call for backup for what might amount to half a dozen arrests?

  In minutes they both came to the same decision. Take care of the business at hand and bring the other information back to the office. If the men were drug dealers, then they were most likely armed. Heavily and to a man. By the time the officers might call for backup, the men would be finished unloading their cargo and long gone.

  “Let’s go get McFadden.” The senior officer motioned to his partner, and a moment later they were inside the bar.

  John McFadden was leaning against the counter, making small talk with two of the patrons when the officers approached him.

  “What the—?” McFadden straightened. He hated cops. Why’d they have to come around at all? Especially tonight when the guys were delivering a shipment of—

  “John McFadden?”

  He scowled at the uniformed men. “Yeah, what’s it to you?”

  “We have a warrant for your arrest.” The officer stepped forward and snapped handcuffs onto McFadden’s wrist.

  He jerked away, but the officer caught his loose hand and cuffed it, too. What was this? And what was happening outside? Had there been a bust, and now he was going down with his guys? Whatever it was, he would post bail before anyone would make him spend an hour in jail. He pulled his cuffed hands away from the officers and glared at them. “Isn’t there a law against coming into someone’s workplace and arresting them for no reason?”

  “We’re arresting you for the attempted murder of Ben Stovall. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be … ”

  McFadden stopped listening. His mind was consumed with two all-invasive thoughts: Ben Stovall had lived, and more important, he’d been crazy enough to tell the cops what had happened. McFadden scowled. Stovall had seen his boys unload a shipment of marijuana. If the lawyer filed a police report on the beating, he probably mentioned the drugs, too. John gritted his teeth and allowed himself to be led away. Whatever the outcome of all of this, he had no intention of staying in jail. He would post bail and then take care of the business he’d failed to finish the first time.

  Eliminating Ben Stovall from the face of the earth.

  17

  Of all the hours in a day, Laura Thompson loved the early morning. Back when her children had flooded her home with noise and activity and constant conversation she had savored the predawn hour as the only time she and God could meet without interruption. How often had the Lord used those morning meetings to speak understanding to her heart or impart life-changing perspective from His Word? This fall morning was no different, and though her house was quieter now Laura couldn’t imagine welcoming her day any other way.

  For years she had enjoyed starting her quiet time with a psalm; today she was in chapter 30. Nearly every line seemed vibrantly alive and relevant to all that consumed Laura lately.

  O LORD my God, I called to you for help and you healed me.… You brought me up from the grave; you spared me from going down into the pit. Sing to the LORD … praise his holy name. For his anger lasts only a moment, but his favor lasts for a lifetime; weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.… You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

  It was Maggie, of course. On the surface she looked bright and put together, but inside she was falling apart. Just like in the image she’d seen that first day, the image of a woman wearing a mas
k.

  Pray, daughter. Maggie’s in trouble …

  Laura blinked back tears. Weeks had passed since Maggie had been to church, and though Laura had called the Stovall home twice since their initial conversation, no one had ever answered and she’d been forced to leave a message.

  Help her, God … whatever she’s going through. I can’t reach her, but You can, Father.

  Coffee brewed in the kitchen nearby and, as the words of prayer came, Laura’s mind was filled with another picture. That of a little girl, alone and frightened.

  What’s this, Lord? Who is this little one?

  Pray for her … trust Me; trust My Word. Anything you ask in My name will be given to you …

  The words filled her heart with peace and Laura continued to pray for Maggie and the little girl and whatever secret lay behind the mask. Throughout the morning she held fast to the promise in the psalm: Weeping may remain for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.

  She prayed the Scripture throughout her morning coffee and well past the folding of laundry and making of bread for dinner that night. By midday the urgency in Laura’s soul was replaced with a deep-seated, peace-filled assurance. Somehow Laura knew the words to the psalm belonged especially to Maggie Stovall for this time in her life. And whatever dark place she was in, however the little girl fit into the picture, one day very soon there would come something from God Himself.

  Great, abundant, overwhelming joy.

  Only five minutes remained before Maggie’s first group session, and she was trembling badly. Other patients filed in and took their places in the circle as Maggie gripped the edge of her chair and forced herself to stay put. She wanted desperately to flee the room, to sneak down the hospital corridor and climb back into bed.

  Maggie wasn’t sure if it was the medicine she was taking or the fact that in talking to Dr. Camas she’d finally told the truth about her life, but for some reason sleep no longer eluded her. Instead it had become an escape, a way of numbing the pain that assaulted her when she stood in the glaring, harsh light of truthfulness.

  The chairs were full except one, and Maggie remained motionless but for her eyes, which darted about the circle taking in something about each of the patients. There was a balding man whose polyester pants hung loosely on his skeletal frame. He leaned forward in his seat and studied the tops of his shoes rather than make eye contact with anyone. Across the circle a pretty girl of no more than twenty with fading bruises on her cheek bit her lower lip and rocked nervously.

  Maggie wondered about the bruises as her gaze moved around the circle to a heavyset, middle-aged woman in an elegant cashmere sweater and wool pants. The woman’s soft, leather shoes bore testimony to the fact that she had money, but the circles under her eyes proved that wealth had done little to ease her pain.

  As far as Maggie could tell, the others were inconspicuously doing the same as she: checking out the circle and trying to decide what paths in life had led them here, as patients in a psychiatric hospital.

  Maggie took in the group as a whole and noticed only a few that whispered casually among themselves. For the most part those seated in the circle were quiet, each person lost in his or her own ocean of stormy darkness. In some strange way, there was comfort in a roomful of people who were suffering like she was. Dr. Camas had said the others in the group had been meeting daily for the past week and that all of them were suffering from various stages of depression.

  “You’re not alone, Maggie,” he’d told her at the end of their last session. “Many people hurt the way you have, but most do not seek help until it’s too late. You’re here. That tells me that deep inside you believe God will use this time to help you get better.”

  She would have loved nothing more than to walk away from the group and find Dr. Camas now. He could make sense of her racing heart and shaking hands.

  Peace I leave you, My peace I give you …

  Maggie started to argue with the Scripture as it flashed across her mind, but she stopped as the words played again and again.

  My peace I give you … My peace I give you …

  Not me, Lord, I don’t deserve peace. Not after what I did.

  My peace I give you …

  It wasn’t a promise Maggie felt worthy of claiming, but for reasons she couldn’t understand, her heart rate slowed, and she was able to draw a slow, deep breath. Before she could analyze her feelings further, a woman with a radiant complexion and twinkling eyes took her place in a nearby chair. On her pale blue sweater she wore a simple name badge, and once she was seated, she introduced herself as Dr. Lynn Baker.

  “Welcome, everyone.” Dr. Baker crossed her legs and smiled at the group. A glow of sincerity in her eyes put Maggie at ease, and she felt the muscles in her neck relax. “We have someone new with us today.” She motioned to Maggie. “Why don’t you introduce yourself to the group.”

  Instantly her muscles seized. What was she doing here, about to bare her soul to a group of perfect strangers? And what if they found out about her column? I’ll have no credibility at all once I’m finished here. She cleared her throat hesitantly. “I’m Maggie.”

  Dr. Baker waited as though Maggie might want to expound on her introduction. When Maggie remained silent, the doctor continued. “Let’s start with revelation.” She looked at Maggie. “Revelation is a time early in group session when each of you has the opportunity to share something about your past, something about the reason you’re here. It’s an optional time.”

  The doctor looked around the room slowly, and there was an uncomfortable silence. The young girl in her twenties began twisting her hands together and shifting restlessly in her chair. There were no sounds coming from her, but tears fell onto her jeans. Maggie guessed she was fighting some type of inner war, wanting to share with the group and terrified at the same time. Maggie could relate. She had no intentions of talking in front of these people. Not now or ever.

  The group had focused its complete attention on the girl, and Dr. Baker took the initiative. “Sarah, do you have something to share?”

  Sarah looked at Dr. Baker, and there was a well of deep desperation in her eyes. The girl opened her mouth and ran a hand self-consciously over her bruised cheek. “Y-y-yes. I think it’s t-t-time.” She glanced down at her hands again and Maggie saw that her fingernails were bitten down past the point of pain. The picture of Sarah sitting there, searching for a way to begin the journey into her darkest place, was so pitiful, Maggie forgot about her own fear.

  Help her, God. Give her the words to speak her heart …

  “C-c-can you tell them m-m-my name and stuff, you know, why I’m here?”

  Dr. Baker smiled kindly and drew an easy breath. “Okay, everyone, this is Sarah. She’s here by choice because she suffered a breakdown. Her parents have recently become part of her life again and are very supportive of the therapy she’s receiving at Orchards.” Dr. Baker looked at Sarah and waited until the girl nodded, apparently giving the doctor permission to continue. “Sarah’s struggles come from having had three abortions.” Dr. Baker paused. “Sarah, you want to tell them what you’re feeling?”

  Everyone in the group seemed to settle back in their chairs, and Maggie wondered if it was out of interest or because they were relieved to have the spotlight on Sarah.

  Sarah ran the bony fingers of her right hand over her left forearm and kept her eyes trained on the floor. Seconds passed and her shoulders began to tremble as tears spilled onto her dime-store canvas tennis shoes.

  “If you’re not quite ready to share, we’ll move—”

  “No.” Sarah looked up and wiped her shaking hand across her wet cheek. “It’s time. If I don’t talk about it now, I never will.”

  Maggie took in everything about Sarah and felt the unfamiliar stirrings of compassion in her heart. Have I been so caught up in myself that I’ve forgotten how to feel for someone else? Maggie didn’t want to think about the answer. Not now, with Sarah about to bare her very soul.


  “I never meant to get pregnant.” Sarah exhaled loudly and tilted her head up so that her eyes fell on a Victorian print of a woman and child that hung on the wall. Fresh tears filled her eyes, but when she continued speaking, her voice was steadier than before. “I never meant to sleep with the guys I dated.”

  “Are you saying you wish you hadn’t been sexually active with them?” Dr. Baker’s question was soft, gentle.

  Sarah nodded. “I was raised in a Christian home but, well, I didn’t think it was what I wanted. All my friends were going to parties and drinking, sleeping with their boyfriends. I didn’t want to be different. You know, Miss Goody Two-shoes.” Sarah hung her head. “I stopped going to church and talking to my mom. She asked me stuff like always, but I wouldn’t answer her. Just told her I was fine and to leave me alone. I deserved a life of my own.”

  Sarah stopped talking and wiped at her cheeks. Maggie’s heart ached for the girl. How many others like Sarah were out there, suffering from a similar rebellion, with no one to talk to, to help them? No wonder there were so many hurting women in the church. Women like Sarah.

  And like me, Maggie realized with a start. She’d been the same, hiding, in rebellion, not talking about her baby until …

  “After that I ran with a wilder crowd. It was like I could do whatever I wanted for the first time. I broke curfew and snuck out my bedroom window in the middle of the night. The first time I got pregnant I was only fifteen.”

  Dr. Baker shifted her position. “Could you tell us how you felt when you found out?”

  Sarah crossed her ankles and clenched her hands as the weight of tormenting regret filled her face. “At first I was a little excited. My aunt had a new baby at that time and I used to love to—”

  She gave way to two quick sobs. The middle-aged woman beside her put an arm over Sarah’s shoulders and hugged her close.