She pressed her fingertips to her eyes.
“It’s going to be all right,” Evan told her.
“I’m just so worried about Mom and Dad. How much more of this craziness can they handle?” Lissa lowered her hands. “I couldn’t believe it when Mom brought up Dad’s breakdown and what he did to Tuck. They never talk about it. Have either of them ever said anything to you?”
“Nope. I only know as much as you’ve told me.”
“Which is almost nothing.” Lissa looked out at the road, subliminally aware of the traffic that passed, the stitch of the tires on the pavement. “The family strategy has always been to pretend that day didn’t happen, or not so much it didn’t happen as that it had no effect. Or if there were bad effects, they were dealt with. Daddy went into a VA hospital to get help, and Tucker and the rest of us went the family counseling route.”
Evan allowed the silence.
“I never heard anyone at my house use the words post-traumatic stress disorder while I was growing up, never once.”
“Your dad won’t even use a cane, for Christ’s sake. He’s damn sure not going to let anyone call him a head case,” Evan said.
Lissa glanced at him. “You know Tucker’s innocent, right? You don’t have doubts like Dad.”
“Your dad doesn’t have doubts. He’s afraid for Tucker, that’s all. He feels like he’s got no control. He can’t help his own son. Can’t protect him. But you know how hard it is for him to show his real feelings. He’s just not that kind of guy. He never will be.”
“Why not? Just once why can’t he let Tucker know he loves him? What is so hard about it?” Lissa didn’t expect an answer, and Evan didn’t supply one. She looked at the darkened faces of the houses they passed, and thought of the families sleeping inside them, their ordinary lives, their sane normal lives. “He’s so much a part of Tucker’s problems,” she said softly.
But hearing her, Evan said, “They’re part of each other’s problems.”
She couldn’t deny it, and neither her dad nor her brother was willing to look head-on at their issues. They couldn’t be honest with each other, couldn’t even talk reasonably to each other. It would never change between them, Lissa thought. They would never resolve their differences. Not even if one of them was dying.
* * *
Inside the house, Evan switched on the kitchen desk lamp and punched the blinking light on the answering machine.
Lissa set down her purse and went around him, and she was hunting through a cabinet for the Tylenol when she heard a voice. “This is Cathy,” the voice said. “I’m calling for Mrs. DiCapua.”
Lissa jerked her gaze to Evan’s. It was Dr. White’s nurse. Her heart slammed against the wall of her chest.
“Dr. White put a rush on your blood test, and I just happened to still be here when your results came back.”
Lissa knew what that result was by the way Cathy sounded, as if she were on the verge of delighted laughter.
“You need to call the office as soon as you can,” Cathy was nearly singing.
Evan switched off the phone. He was smiling.
Lissa gripped the countertop. “Maybe she always sounds that happy.”
“I don’t think so, babe.” He came to her and pulled her into his arms.
“I can’t believe we’re in this predicament.”
“Together. We’re in it together. I know I can’t be pregnant for you, but I’ll be the best support I can be. You won’t have to do any of it alone—not the doctor visits, not the labor, not the night feedings, diaper changes or walking the floor. I promise, and you know how experienced I am, how many times I’ve been through it.”
She took a shuddery breath, biting her lip, trying to swallow her tears. They came, anyway. “I’m so scared, Ev.” Her voice broke against his chest.
He gathered her more closely to him, murmuring, “It’s okay, babe. It’s okay. I’m right here. I’ve got you,” and his breath stirred the tendrils of hair that were loose at her temple.
She grew quiet finally, and stepping out of his embrace, she went to the pantry to find a tissue. “I don’t think I’ll be a good mother.”
“You’ll be fantastic,” Evan said. “You have so much love to give. You’re kind and patient, fun loving and sexy— Well, the sexy part is for me....”
“Maybe not with a baby, though.” Suppose it turned out like Tucker, riddled with issues? How would they stand the stress, the heartbreak? The questions that framed the true source of her fear rose in her mind. She couldn’t bring herself to ask them out loud. It felt mean and disloyal. Neither did she point out to Evan all the unhappiness her parents had endured on Tucker’s account, facing nothing but one problem after another. Evan knew all of that already.
“Nobody’s family is perfect, Liss,” he said, and she sighed.
She wadded her tissue and dropped it into the trash, keeping her back to him.
“This is our baby,” Evan tried again, “and forgive me, but I think we’ll be better parents than your folks or mine, and I think parenting is what makes the difference.”
He wanted her to be persuaded, to agree, to acquiesce, but she couldn’t. “I can’t talk about this anymore.” She faced him. “We have to get through tomorrow, Tucker’s arraignment—”
“Jesus!” Evan clapped his head in his hands. “You know, Liss, I love your brother, too, but I’m really tired of sidelining our lives to take care of his, and I’m damn sure not giving up on having our baby because of him. Tucker doesn’t always get to come first.”
“I never said he did.”
“Maybe not, but you act as if he does. You live your life as if he does.”
“I’m going to bed.” Lissa slipped off her flats and picked them up.
He grabbed her arm when she tried to walk past him. Their eyes locked. “That’s it?” he said.
She looked down at his hand that circled her elbow, and he let her go.
“Please promise you won’t do it—won’t have an abortion, Liss.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Ev.”
“Lissa! For God’s sake, it’s not just your baby! It’s my baby, too. I don’t believe this, that you would just get rid of it!”
Lissa didn’t answer. She felt numb with exhaustion, an overcoming sense of unreality. This wasn’t happening to her but to someone else. She was a spectator, an audience of one watching a play. Soon the curtain would drop, and she would resume her life, the one she’d had before today, that she’d mostly loved and felt safe in.
Evan leaned against the counter. “You can’t go off on your own with this, Lissa.”
“I won’t.”
“But you’ve done it before, you know you have, and if you do it this time, if you do something irrevocable without talking to me, I don’t think I can be there for you. You need to know that.”
She examined her shoes for a moment, rubbed at a smudge on the toe of one. “I’m going to bed,” she repeated. “Are you coming?”
“No,” he said.
She left the kitchen, and despite the hard place they were in, she thought he’d follow her. Even after she changed into her nightshirt, crawled into their bed and switched off the lamp, she waited to feel his weight settle in beside her, but he didn’t come. She lay on her back, fighting a fresh threat of tears, staring at the ceiling, and after a while she heard him open the door to the linen closet. She heard his steps fade toward the front of the house in the direction of the study that was furnished with an old leather sofa, and she knew then that for the first time in her married life, she would spend the night alone.
* * *
Something woke her, or maybe she never really fell asleep. Maybe her mind was working on Tucker’s troubles all along as a way of distracting her from her distress over her quarrel with Evan. Whatever the p
rompt was, it pulled her upright, fully alert, and as if she had a plan in mind, she went from her bedroom down the hallway and into the bedroom she was using temporarily as her art studio. Her laptop was sitting where she’d left it on her art table. Perching on a stool, she powered it on and did another Google search for Sonny Cade’s name, hoping there would be an email address at his company’s website, and there was. But when she opened the message box, she sat with her hands in her lap, staring at the screen. It wasn’t possible to condense her concern, the plea for the help she thought Sonny could provide, into a square half the size of an envelope.
How would she begin? With Revel Wiley? Lissa was still amazed that the woman had approached her. Worse yet, Revel had spoken to her mother; she had threatened her mother. The idea felt suddenly terrifying. Who knew what Revel’s agenda was? But it was the same when Lissa thought of Detective Sergeant Garza. Both women gave her the feeling that her family was a pawn in some much larger game that was being played out on opposite sides of the law. It made no sense, not that Lissa could see. She loosened her gaze, thinking of Revel, recalling the woman’s outrageously tight clothing, the heavily made-up eyes, her brazen demeanor.
Only other thing I can say is that’s pretty much how and when all this shit got started—with those two losers. Revel had said that. What shit was she referring to? And what two losers? Tucker and Darren? Darren and Miranda? Miranda and Jessica? Lissa didn’t know anything other than she didn’t want her mother involved with Revel; she didn’t want her endangered by that woman. If it were not for the risk it might pose to Tucker, Lissa thought, she would call the police on Revel and not think twice.
She began her message.
Dear Sonny, she wrote, I don’t know if you’ll remember me. We went to high school together. You knew my brother, Tucker Lebay. I would like to stop by and see you tomorrow and would be grateful if you could let me know a time that would be convenient. Lissa paused a moment before tapping out, It’s urgent, then signing her name. She closed her eyes and pushed Send.
In the morning, she found Sonny’s answer. I’ll be at my office and free any time after twelve noon. Look forward to seeing you. S.
16
EMILY BOLTED UPRIGHT, uncertain at first what had wakened her or where she was. Objects swam at her in the murky light. She recognized Tucker’s chest of drawers, his desk and chair. The linen window shade was up, the window itself a shiny, blackened eye. She tumbled her fingers through her hair, remembering now that after finishing her tea, she came up here to Tucker’s room, curious to see what Roy was doing, but he’d left. She must have lain down, fallen asleep.
Fishing with her feet for her shoes, she bent absently to straighten the rug, an ivory-and-sage-green dhurrie that was askew beside Tucker’s bed, and she was in the process of righting herself when the terrible sound came, shattering the night silence. It was something between a groan and a scream, barely human, ragged with fear, and she froze. Tucker! In her sleep-muddled mind, it seemed reasonable to think of him first. That he’d wakened in his cell and shouted out in panic. How would he stand it? Being locked up? Suppose they couldn’t get him free? Her throat constricted. She lost her breath.
The noises continued, grew louder, a series of verbal, frightened bleats.
Not Tucker, but Roy, she thought, and the realization sent her quickly down the hall toward their bedroom. She halted in the doorway, giving her eyes time to adjust, to make sense of what she was seeing: Roy, crouched on the bed, alert to some imaginary horror.
Imaginary to everyone but him.
Emily had learned that from painful experience. The first time his cries wakened her, they were newlyweds. She had naturally reached for him, wanting to reassure him, and moments later, when she found herself on the floor, head reeling, she’d had no idea what had happened, that he’d mistaken her for his enemy and slugged her, blackening her eye. He’d been mortified. As he was months later, when his fist clipped her jaw. By the third time, she learned to get out of his way. When she encouraged him to see someone professional and get help, he refused. What could a doctor do about nightmares? But then that terrible day came when instead of her, it was Tucker who was made to suffer, when Roy, however accidentally and unconsciously, had put his own small son’s life in danger, and that had altered everything.
There had been other episodes since then, but none so violent, or even close, and now, standing here, Emily couldn’t remember the last time Roy had a full-blown night terror. Not in years, she thought, but he was in the grip of one now, a bad one.
He was back “in country.” That was how he’d put it if he could speak rationally. He would say his unit was undergoing constant shelling. Emily knew from the way he covered his ears and moaned that the noise and the action were painfully real to him. If he were able, he would say they had battled for control of this village, or that hill, or some trail, or a bridge, or whatever, for days and nights on end. He would say that after a battle, when quiet first ensued, it would sound as loud as the shelling. And yet it was through that very quiet that he initially heard the little boy’s thin wail, his tiny, forlorn sobbing.
On one of the rare occasions Roy had ever spoken to Emily of the events that led to the loss of his leg, he said he acted because he knew a child was in danger, and he couldn’t bear it. He tried to at first. He rolled from his belly onto his back and stared up at the vacant sky, pretending it wasn’t the sky over Vietnam but over Texas. He plugged his ears and tried to tune out the anguished cries. Still he heard them even as they dissolved and grew softer and more hopeless.
At nineteen, then, Roy was barely out of boyhood himself when he jackknifed to his feet and ran a zigzag path toward the bombed-out village, heedless of his own safety, intent on finding the child, on saving him. He believed the location was secure when he scooped the small boy into his arms.
It was likely the last time he ever considered anything in his life secure.
Emily said his name now, taking a step into the room.
He gave no sign that he heard her, but shifted in a rough semicircle on his bent legs, the one that was whole and the one that was not, eyes rolling and filled with terror. Sweat slicked his face, darkened patches of his T-shirt on his chest and under his arms. His breathing was loud and ragged, almost a sob.
Emily’s own throat closed. Her eyelids burned. She knuckled her fist to her mouth, fighting an overwhelming need to go to him. Any minute now the fear would pass. He’d collapse back into sleep as abruptly as he wakened, and in the full light of morning, only she would remember. That was the way a night terror worked; the dreamer would have little to no recollection of their actions. She knew this from talking to the psychologist years ago and from experience, not only with Roy but sadly with Tucker, too. His first episode had come in the wake of Roy’s breakdown, when he had been so terrorized by Roy’s actions.
Stress was the trigger, and they were under a huge and horrible amount of it now. It would end up killing them if something wasn’t done.
Emily took another step. Ambient light trembled over the walls. She felt chilled and, looking toward the closet, thought of her nightgown and robe that were hanging inside. She could change, put them on, she thought, and she was moving that way when a sound caused her to look over her shoulder in time to see Roy drop from the bed to the floor. His back was to her. She heard his labored breath, scrabbling noises.
What is he doing? The thought careened through her mind just as he turned toward her, still crouched, raising his arm. He was holding the gun, the old Colt service revolver, and she blinked, not believing it at first. But it was there, in his hand, the same gun she’d discovered under their bed this morning, the one he had evidently stowed there without telling her. Her heart stalled.
“Roy?” His name was a question.
Emily thought of flipping on the ceiling light; she thought of letting loose the scream
that climbed her throat. She did neither. Wherever he was in his mind, she was his enemy. Her eyes darted to the phone, barely discernible, on the nightstand, but if she were to move at all, he would shoot her, convinced he was defending himself, his position, the lives of his fellow soldiers. She had no doubt of that.
“Roy,” she said softly. “I’m not armed. Can you see?” She lifted her hands slowly, so slowly, palms facing out.
He watched her, brow knit into a slight frown. Lifting his elbow, he balanced it on the mattress, steadying himself.
She thought it was a sign that he was coming back. “Roy? It’s all right now. You’re safe. Can you hear me? You’re at home with me, Emily, your wife. Do you see me, sweetheart?” Her voice snagged, broke. She held her jaw tight. Don’t cry. Not now.
Suddenly, he pivoted, and half rising, he switched on the bedside lamp then faced her again. Emily bit down on the tiny shriek that hammered her teeth. His gaze was locked on hers, and as she watched, he lifted the gun again, pressing it now against his temple.
“Roy! No!” She stepped forward.
“Stay!” he told her, and she did. Only her heart raced, battering her ribs.
Time passed. Each second was ticked away on the grandfather clock on the landing in loud, heedless defiance of everything that mattered. Emily could feel the old clock’s vibration through the thin soles of her shoes, the walls of her brain. She wondered why this was happening and couldn’t think how to stop it. Roy had never threatened her life or his own while in the grip of a night terror. She thought of the stories she has seen on television, where a husband shoots his wife, even his children, and then himself. What will happen to Tucker if she and Roy are dead? She made a sound, something like a whimper. She thought, Please, don’t let it end like this.
And now, as if he was alone, and she wasn’t here, wasn’t a witness, Roy lowered the gun and pushed it under the bed. Then hoisting himself back onto the mattress, he curled on his side, facing the wall, knifing his hands between his drawn-up knees, and for a big man, a solidly built man, he looked so small and as vulnerable as a child. She sat beside him, putting her hand on his hip, lowering her face to his shoulder. “It’s all right now, sweet. You’re safe, safe home with me.” She breathed the words against the cool flesh of his upper arm, taking in his ripe odor. It was the scent of fear, of loss, of guilt and futility. He was still beneath her touch, and she couldn’t decide whether he was sleeping.
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