by Lisa Gardner
“I know.”
“How … how could you leave us? How could you give up on him like that?”
“Because Chelsea’s lonely, too. And troubled and traumatized and scared to death that, one day, she’s going to wake up as violent and angry as her brother. That’s a lot for a little girl to deal with, Victoria, and as long as she lived here, it wasn’t going to get dealt with. Every day would be about Evan. But Chelsea needs us, too.”
His words are matter-of-fact. Somehow, this makes them harder to take.
“What does Melinda think of this?” I ask pointedly.
At the mention of his fiancée, Michael stiffens, but doesn’t retreat. “My kids are her kids. She gets that.”
“So you’ll start over. A new little family. Is she young? Does she want children? Does that scare the crap out of you?”
He regards me evenly. “Yes, she wants kids. And yeah, it scares the crap out of me.”
“It’s not fair,” I whisper.
“No, Victoria, it’s not.” He hesitates. For a second, I think he might say more, he might touch my cheek. Then the moment passes.
I can’t look at him anymore. I stare down at the deck and will myself not to cry. This is not about me. This is about Evan. Getting to see his sister again. Getting to see his father again. Evan and his sister reclaiming part of their family.
“I’ll bring him to the doctor’s office,” I say. “I’ll work with Dr. Curtin. If this means Evan can see you and Chelsea, I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I say, on behalf of Evan. Then I don’t speak anymore because my throat is thick with tears and I don’t want to say something stupid, such as I’m lonely, too. Or even worse, I still love you.
Michael crosses to Evan. He starts to say his goodbye. Evan doesn’t take it well. Michael negotiates a compromise. One last round of Super Soaker warfare, then Evan can watch a show on the History Channel after Michael departs.
They return to their battle. I retreat inside the house to the upstairs master bath, where I splash water on my face and realize for the first time that my hair is snarled, my shirt is spattered with Evan’s blood, and I have dirt on both my knees. Doesn’t matter. Michael and Melinda, Melinda and Michael, two little lovebirds sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
Downstairs, Michael and Evan are entering the family room, both pink-cheeked and water-soaked.
“What do you think?” Michael asks Evan. “Can I visit you again?”
Evan regards Michael thoughtfully. “You left me.”
“I was away longer than I thought I would be,” Michael says.
“You left.”
“I’m here now.”
“But you left.”
Michael finally concedes. “Yeah, buddy, I left. And I missed you every day, and I hurt every day, and I don’t want to hurt like that again. So here I am—”
“Leav-ing,” Evan singsongs.
“Returning,” Michael corrects. “I don’t live here anymore, Evan. I can’t stay, but I can come back.” He looks at me for support.
I add, “He can come back, Evan. You’ll see.”
Evan doesn’t look like he believes us, but he’s also tired from the morning’s events. He’s prepared to be mollified with TV, so I turn on cable, then escort my ex-husband to the door.
Michael doesn’t say goodbye, just turns and kisses me lightly on the cheek.
I stand there long after he’s departed, my fingers touching the spot on my skin as if that will keep him with me.
I always thought when the moment came it would be in the middle of the night. Evan would be screaming and shrieking. I would be bolting down a hallway or up a flight of stairs. Maybe I’d trip, or maybe I’d just be one step too slow. I’d go down, and my frothing son would be upon me.
Instead, I sit next to Evan on the sofa. He keeps his eyes on the TV, slightly slack-jawed, deep in TV coma. I relax, feeling sleepy from so much time outdoors. Maybe I’ll take us for ice cream after this. Maybe we can attempt a public outing.
I feel a prick. A pain in my side. I reach down to rub it away, and notice a knife handle sticking out from between my ribs. My son’s hand is holding it. And my son, my beautiful son, is glaring at me.
“Et tu, Brute?” he snarls.
At that moment, staring into the black pools of his eyes, I get it. Why my son appears so calm: because there’s no more turmoil inside him. Evan’s surrendered to the phantom. He’s let the phantom win.
I stare at the paring knife. I stare at my blood, dripping down the handle, across his pale thin fingers, into the tan sofa cushion. And I feel pain now, white-hot, dizzying. I feel other drippings, inside my body, from whatever vital organs have just been pierced.
I watch the day dim before my eyes, grow shadowy around the edges.
Such a pretty day, I think. Such a happy day to end like this.
I look at my son. And I do what any mom would do.
I wrap my fingers around his bloody hand, and I say, before the darkness takes me, “It’s okay, Evan. It’s all going to be okay. I love you. I will always love you.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
DANIELLE
I was on paid administrative leave. No point to staying on the ward. I should return home, shower, eat, and sleep for the next forty-eight hours. Naturally, I lingered on the unit instead.
I hung out in the Admin area, tackling general paperwork, then, reluctantly, writing up the last few hours of Lucy’s life. I made a minute-by-minute account of everything that happened during my shift, from my medical evaluation downstairs to Jorge’s meltdown upstairs. The detectives’ arrival. The execution of the warrant, the handing over of files, my solo outing for the infamous glass of water, as well as my brief visit to Lucy’s room. I recorded Lucy’s state of mind, her feline waltz through the moonbeams. Finally, I mentioned refilling the stupid copier, answering the detectives’ questions, and then, after Greg’s announcement, launching our desperate hunt through various hospital corridors. I went over it, again and again and again.
The repetition didn’t make it any easier to take. I couldn’t find the state of numbness that’s supposed to follow such tragedies. We’d never lost a child before. We’d had some attempt suicide. We’d heard of others who met tragedy after leaving here. But we’d never had a kid die on our watch. I didn’t know what to do to ease the tightness in my chest. I hadn’t cried since that one week with my Aunt Helen, when I’d realized that tears were both too much and too little for mourning an entire family.
So I wrote my report. When I was done, I took the string ball Lucy made for me, and stapled it to the upper right-hand corner.
Eight a.m. The kids were up, the sun was shining through the windows, and the newly appointed security guard was standing outside the doors.
I headed for the hospital cafeteria and waited for Karen to find me there.
It was past nine when Karen finally showed. She entered the cafeteria and headed straight for me. Her wire-rimmed glasses were perched on the end of her nose, her ash-colored hair pinned back messily, an administrator who’d been roused from her bed and still hadn’t had the chance to return there. Her footsteps were brisk. Her gaze level. She was all business, my boss. She’d been heading the unit for at least a dozen years now, and I couldn’t think of anyone better for the job.
She pulled out the chair across from me, setting down her ubiquitous pile of papers, and pushing her glasses into place with one finger. She eyed my uneaten bagel, cup of coffee. “Do you need a refill?” she asked, gesturing to my mug.
I shook my head. My stomach couldn’t take any more caffeine, let alone my nerves.
She headed for the food, loading up a tray, then returning to me. She had a banana, a muffin, and steaming mug of Lipton tea. This was kindness on her part. We had a kitchenette in the unit where she could eat the exact same meal for free. But there’s something about meeting someone in a cafeteria. You must break bread to
gether; it’s part of the tradition.
She peeled her banana. I managed a bite of bagel. Then, because I just couldn’t take it, I spoke first.
“You know I didn’t hurt her, right?” I burst out. “You know I would never do anything to harm Lucy, or any other child.”
“I don’t know that,” Karen said, and I felt my stomach lurch. She continued, “I believe that, however. If asked an opinion, I would say you would never intentionally harm a child.”
I nodded, pathetically grateful for her show of faith. “I don’t know what happened,” I whispered.
“I don’t know either. In this matter, we’re going to have to defer to the police.”
“Who will take care of her?” I asked, meaning Lucy’s body.
“I don’t know,” Karen said again. “Abuse charges are pending against her foster parents; she went straight from their custody to ours. Does the state claim her body, make arrangements for her? This is my first time in a situation like this.”
“We should do it,” I said immediately. “It’ll give our kids a chance to say goodbye.”
“Danielle, Lucy only stayed with us a matter of days. And she never mingled with the other kids. They still haven’t figured out she’s gone.”
“What will you tell them?”
“Given her limited impact on their lives, very little. We’ll answer any questions they ask, of course, but I’m not convinced they’ll ask many.”
The comment depressed me more. I sank lower in my chair. “Doesn’t seem right,” I murmured. “She was a child, a nine-year-old girl, and now she’s dead and no one misses her. That doesn’t seem right.”
“I miss her,” Karen said steadily. “You miss her, too.”
My eyes burned. I looked away, staring hard at the blue linoleum floor.
“Go home,” Karen said. “Run or rest, scream or meditate, do whatever it is you need to do to heal. You’re an exceptional nurse, Danielle. And a good person. This is going to pass. You’re going to feel okay again.”
“I want to work.”
“Not an option.”
“I need the kids. Taking care of them is how I take care of myself.”
“Not an option.”
“I’ll observe. Catch up on paperwork. Stay out of everyone’s way. I promise.”
“Danielle, the police will be returning at any moment. You don’t need to be on the unit. You need to be at home, phoning a good lawyer.”
“But I didn’t—”
Karen held up a hand: “Preaching to the choir. Take care of you, Danielle. You matter to the kids. You matter to all of us.”
I wished she wouldn’t say stuff like that. I swiped at my eyes, stared harder at the cafeteria floor.
“There will be two staff debriefings,” Karen added finally. “Two p.m. for the day shift; eleven p.m. for the night shift. If you want to attend, off the clock, you’re welcome. We need to establish new procedures so this kind of thing never happens again. I’m also arranging for counseling for any who need it. Something else for you to consider.”
I nodded. She’d tossed me a bone. I accepted it.
Across the way, I noticed Greg now walking into the cafeteria, scanning each table. He headed toward me, then spotted Karen and hesitated. Karen, however, saw him, too. It was almost as if she’d been waiting for him.
She grabbed her paperwork, topped it with her uneaten muffin.
“You need to take care of you,” she repeated firmly, then she departed as Greg approached. He walked straight toward me. Made no move to grab breakfast, made no motion to pull out a chair. He halted before me.
“Come home,” he said.
“Can’t stand the thought,” I told him honestly.
“Not your home, Danielle. Mine.”
So I did.
Turned out Greg shared a three-bedroom apartment with two other guys. Like many local apartments, it was carved out of a once grand home, with hardwood floors, nine-foot ceilings, and bull’s-eye molding around the expansive bay windows. The place felt worn around the edges, an aging matriarch with good bones but tired skin. I commented on the crown molding. Greg shrugged. Apparently, he wasn’t into architecture.
His roommates were gone. Probably down by the river, he mumbled. Perfect day for hanging out on the Charles. Hot, humid, hazy. Greg turned on the window AC units as he gave me the nickel tour. Still, we were both sweating by the time we reached the end of the hall.
He opened the last door, gestured inside. “My pad,” he said simply.
It was neater than I expected. No towels or stray clothing strewn across the floor. The furniture was College Dorm 101. A double mattress, sans frame and headboard. An old maple dresser, slightly lopsided, missing one knob. An equally old maple desk, small for a guy Greg’s size, and dwarfed by a black office chair.
No posters hanging up. No pictures adorning the dresser. The room featured cream-colored paint on the walls, dark green sheets on the bed, and tan blinds on the sunny windows. That was it. The room was a way station. A place for someone to crash, not for someone to live.
I looked at Greg, realizing for the first time how little I knew about him.
“No photo of the girlfriend on the nightstand?” I commented.
“No nightstand,” he said. “No girlfriend.”
“Family?”
“Got a sister in Pennsylvania.”
“You never talk about her.”
“You never ask.”
He had me there. I rarely questioned him or anyone else. It was ironic, if you thought about it. My entire personal history entered the room way before I did; I could see it on people’s faces when we were finally introduced. Oh, so she’s the one whose father shot everyone…. Therefore, I didn’t inquire about others. That would invite them to ask about me, and then I’d have to verify the rumors in their heads.
“Ever see her?” I asked now. “Your sister?”
“Not lately.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Busy working, I guess.” He set his duffel bag down next to the wall. We both stared awkwardly at each other, too aware of the mattress in the corner.
“Not much artwork,” I commented at last.
“No.”
“Don’t plan on staying for long?”
“Don’t spend much time here,” he answered. “I work two jobs, and save my pennies to buy a home someday. I want a fenced-in yard, a puppy, a wife, and two-point-two kids. That’s where I’m going. This is just where I am now.”
I didn’t say anything. It was a nice dream. Fit him. He wasn’t screwing around. That kind of baggage … all mine, not his.
Greg cleared his throat. “Thirsty?”
“Okay.”
We returned to the kitchen. Dishes crowded the sink, the countertop could use a scrubbing. Greg made a disparaging sound in the back of his throat, so I was guessing the roommates made the mess. He left it, however, opening the vintage fridge to retrieve one Gatorade and one Diet Coke. He handed me the Diet Coke, opened the Gatorade for himself.
“Got any rum?” I joked, taking the first cold sip.
He regarded me for a second, then reached above the fridge and pulled down a bottle of Captain Morgan. He handed it to me, like a dare. How badly did I want to self-destruct?
After a minute, I handed the bottle back, untouched. He replaced it on top of the fridge. I finished my Coke. He finished his Gatorade. Then we were back to our staring contest.
“I’ll take the couch,” he said. “You can have the bedroom. AC should’ve cooled it by now. I’ll get you some clean sheets.”
“Brought me all the way here to sleep alone?” I asked.
He replied calmly, “I’m not your father, Danielle. I won’t fuck you.”
I hit him. Hard, before either of us expected it. He took the blow squarely in the jaw. I heard my knuckles crack. His head, on the other hand, barely wavered. So I hit him again, this time in the hard plank of his stomach. Not so much as an oomph, the fit bastard.
I went to town, slapping at him, pummeling desperately. I whacked his sides, his chest, his shoulders. I hit and hit and hit. And he stood there, as if he were a marble statue and I were a feral pigeon flapping around his feet.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” I heard myself scream.
I brought up my knee, going for the money shot. At the last second, he blocked the jab. Then his hands captured my wrists, and suddenly he had me backed up against the far wall. Now I was the one on the defensive, my small frame pinned by his larger build.
He leaned down, face so close I could count the beads of sweat dotting his upper lip. His eyes were a deep dark brown. Chocolate, with a ring of gold in the middle.
He was going to kiss me. In my agitated state, I couldn’t decide if I would kiss him back, or bite him.
“I won’t fuck you,” he said again.
“Bastard!”
“When I let you go, you’ll stop hitting me. You’ll go down the hall, get into bed, and get some goddamn sleep. Do you understand?”
“Asshole!”
“Feel better yet?”
I growled at him. He still didn’t release my wrists. Then, abruptly, our bodies so close together, I felt the hard length of him against my hip. He wanted me. It gave me a sense of power I hadn’t had in days. I moved against him, slightly dipped and swayed.
The gold ring around his pupils contracted. Another bead of sweat appeared on his upper lip.
I raised my right leg, hooking it around his hips and jerking his pelvis deeper into mine. I decided that fucking Gym Coach Greg might be the best way ever of escaping from my own mind.
His head lowered, his lips hovering just above mine. I worked my hips again, until I could feel his erection right where I wanted it. I started rubbing, slowly, lightly, picking up speed and pressure as I went along.
He was panting. So was I. Maybe we wouldn’t move. Maybe we’d dry hump right here in the kitchen. After that, I’d take some rum. I’d chug it before walking out of this goddamn apartment and going home alone.