by Lisa Jackson
The mutt was lying on a braided rug at the foot of his bed, head on his paws, sad eyes watching Nick’s every move.
“I’ll be back,” Nick said, as if the dog could understand. “Soon.” He found two pairs of jeans that he added to the bundle. “Ole’s gonna take care of you and you’ll like that, believe me. He’s got a lady Doberman who is one helluva woman.”
Tough Guy wasn’t interested.
“You’ll be fine,” Nick told the dog. “Better’n me.” He zipped up the duffel and took a quick look around. This cabin, all of four pine-paneled rooms, had been more than his home; it had been his sanctuary, a place where he’d found peace after the rat race. Somewhere between adolescence and now, he’d managed to rid himself of the chip that had been so firmly attached to his shoulder, the burden of being a Cahill and living up to family expectations.
“It was all bullshit,” he explained to the dog as Tough Guy got to his three feet and hobbled after him to the living room where the cold ashes of last night’s fire lay in the stone grate and the smell of burnt wood lingered in the air. Nick scowled as he thought that he’d never really measured up to Cahill standards; his father had expected Nick to break free of Alex’s shadow, to best his older brother.
Samuel Cahill had wound up disappointed. It served the bastard right. The old man could rot in his grave for all Nick cared.
The phone jangled and Nick swore. He considered not bothering to answer. Instead, he dropped his duffel bag on the floor and in three swift steps picked up the receiver on the second ring, then growled, “Hello.”
“Nick?” a woman with a slightly agitated and whispery voice asked. “Nicholas Cahill?”
“Who’s this?”
“Cherise.”
His cousin. His heart sank. No matter what she wanted, it was bound to be bad news.
“Boy, you’re a difficult person to track down. I almost had to hire a private detective to find out where you were.” She laughed nervously.
“But you didn’t.”
“No . . . Directory assistance.”
Nick scowled, sat on the edge of his corduroy couch. He pictured Cherise as he’d last seen her, with blond hair, pale gold eyes, and not an ounce of body fat on her tiny body. She’d had a perpetual tan, overdone her makeup, and had puppydogged after him when they were kids. He’d liked her then, before both she and he had found their own separate brands of trouble and drifted apart. The good times were over; had been for twenty years. “So, Cherise, how’re ya?”
“I’m fine,” she said in a voice that didn’t instill confidence. “Actually, I’m wonderful these days. I’ve found the Lord.”
Great, he thought cynically. Just damned great. “Is that right?”
“My life . . . my life’s been turned around.”
“I guess that’s good.” Nick wasn’t religious, and didn’t really think much about it; but if Cherise wanted to be born again, that was all well and good. She’d always been one to follow the latest trend. The way he figured it, if Cherise were proclaiming her love for the Son of God, Christianity must be in vogue.
“Yes, it is. I thank Jesus every day.”
“And the kids?” He glanced out the window to the gray day.
“Oh, they’re . . . fine. Good. Teenagers.” She sighed theatrically. “The Lord certainly has his work cut out for him with those three, I’m afraid.”
Nick waited. Pleasantries were over. Surely there was a reason she’d hunted him down. He hadn’t talked to her in over fifteen years. There was a few tense seconds of silence and then she drew in a breath.
“I, um, I’m calling about Marla.”
His gut tightened but he wasn’t surprised. “I heard about the accident,” he admitted. “Alex came to see me.”
“Oh.”
That caught her off guard, cut her short for a second. But Cherise was a quick thinker; she always landed on her feet.
“Well, we can all thank Jesus that she’s alive.”
Amen.
“Her friend wasn’t so lucky,” she went on. “Did you know Pam? Ever meet her?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, well.” A sniff of disapproval caused Nick to wonder about the passenger in the car. But then, he wondered about a lot of things when it came to his sister-in-law. “Listen Nick, I’m calling you because you’re family and I thought you might understand. You and Marla, you were close once, and you know she and I, we always got along. I love her like my sister, well, if I had one and I . . . well, not just me, but Montgomery, too,” she added quickly, as if her brother was an afterthought. “I . . . we’d like to see her. The problem is Alex won’t allow it. He keeps insisting that she shouldn’t have any visitors aside from immediate family.”
So there it was. He glanced at the old Seth Thomas clock that hung near the kitchen alcove. “Isn’t she still in a coma?”
“I know, but I’d love to sit with her, read some passages to her. The Bible has a way of healing, you know.”
“As I remember it, Marla wasn’t too religious.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Cherise said quickly. “Jesus hears all our prayers, all of them.”
Nick didn’t comment.
“Anyway,” she went on rapidly, like a train gathering steam. “I’ve been praying for her, you know. And . . . and Pam. And that poor man who was in the truck, the one with all the burns who they think won’t make it . . .” She paused for a second. “I’d just like to see her, Nick, just hold her hand and tell her I love her and remind her that the Lord loves her, too.”
“Maybe when she’s better.”
There was a painful, long-suffering sigh and he sensed the gears turning in Cherise’s mind. She was like a dog with a bone, never giving up, always finding a way to get what she wanted. Three husbands, all once-upon-a-time confirmed bachelors, were proof enough of her skills of persuasion. “Look, Nick, I assume you’ll be coming to visit, after all you’ve known Marla . . . well, a long time.”
The insinuation was there, left dangling.
Nick gripped the receiver a little tighter and didn’t dare wade into the treacherous waters of that particular memory.
“I’d thought you’d want to visit her,” Cherise suggested, and Nick felt the undercurrents, the silent accusations, running through the telephone wires.
“Maybe,” he hedged, leaning back on the couch, eyeing the yellowed planks that made up the walls of his home. Tough Guy bounded onto a beat-up chair, caught Nick’s glare and immediately jumped down to crouch under the coffee table and observe him through the glass top where rings from the previous nights’ drinks still remained.
“Well, if you talk to Alex, please tell him I want to see her. Try and get him to understand that we’re family. Despite anything that happened between our fathers, we’re still all blood. Kin.”
“That we are,” Nick said, standing.
“So you’ll talk to Alex?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Good. Thank you. The Lord works in mysterious ways, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.” A trace of irony tinged his words as Nick managed to disentangle himself from the conversation and hang up. He picked up the glass he’d left on the table and deposited it in the kitchen sink. Tough Guy hitched his way across the old linoleum.
“I’ll be back,” he said to the dog again as he shouldered his bag and walked onto the back porch. Pausing to check that the shepherd had food, water and a bed in the corner of the porch, he locked the door. Tough Guy raced to the truck, but Nick shook his head. “Not this time, fella.” He scratched the dog behind his ears, one of which was a little chewed-up, as it had been when the dog had limped, bloodied and half-dead, to his porch not long after Nick had moved in.
“Must’ve tangled with a raccoon or other dog,” the local vet had said. The result was that the shepherd had lost a leg, saved an ear, and found a new home with Nick. They’d gotten along just fine.
Now, Nick straightened. “You stay out of trouble,” Nick ordered
as he climbed into the cab and started the engine. The sky was a somber shade of gray that matched Nick’s mood to a T.
He jammed the truck into first and thought about Cherise’s call and her proclaimed faith. He supposed a little dose of that wouldn’t hurt him right now. A little divine help would be appreciated, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He glanced in the side-view mirror, caught a glimpse of the black-and-white dog watching him from the back porch and felt like he was leaving the only real family he’d ever known.
“Great,” Nick muttered under his breath. He reached the county road that would lead him, eventually, to the Interstate. From there it was due south to San Francisco.
And to Marla.
There were voices, several hushed voices that she thought she knew as she rose to the surface of consciousness. The urge to sleep was strong, her mind thick and dull, but she struggled to open lids that refused to budge and forced herself to stay awake, well, as awake as she could.
“Yeah, he said he’d show up, but I really had to twist his arm,” Alex was saying.
Who? Who’s going to show up?
Alex chuckled, but the sound seemed forced. “He looks like hell, too. Really bought into all that counterculture, north woods look. You know, faded jeans, old shirt, baggy parka, shaggy hair, the whole nine yards. He hadn’t seen a razor for more than a week, unless I miss my guess. He’d been out fishing or crabbing or something in a boat that looked about as seaworthy as a sieve.”
“But he is coming,” Eugenia said, returning to the point.
So her mother-in-law was in the room, too.
“He said he was, but who knows? He’s not exactly dependable.”
“You were at his place?”
“I stopped by, but he wasn’t at the cabin. I tracked him down at what I would loosely call a marina.” Again the mirthless chuckle.
“Why do you want him here?” Cissy asked, and Marla realized for the first time that her daughter was also in the room. “Y’know, if you hate him so much?”
“I don’t hate him, honey. I just don’t . . . approve.”
“Jeez, Dad, why do you care what he does as long as he’s not bothering you?”
Good question, Marla thought, and felt herself drifting away again, the deep, comforting sleep that was so seductive pulling her under again, but no one responded and she felt a tension in the silence.
“Why won’t anyone talk about him?” Cissy finally demanded. “Y’ know sometimes it’s like his name is a four letter word or something.”
“It is,” Alex said.
“So is yours,” the girl said just loud enough to be heard.
“There’s no reason to argue about it.” Eugenia sucked in a soft breath. “Brothers don’t always get along.”
“Like with Grandpa and his brother?”
“Fenton, yes,” Eugenia said stiffly. “And his children. Cherise and Montgomery, oh, I think he goes by Monty or something like that these days.”
“Why aren’t they part of the family anymore?”
“They don’t want to be.”
There was a snort of disbelief and Cissy said, “Uncle Monty called the other day. For Dad.”
“I talked to him,” Alex said with a trace of irritation that Marla didn’t understand. But then there was so much that was beyond her comprehension, beyond her memory . . . she tried to move, to let them know that she could hear, but felt herself drifting away again.
“Okay, so what about Nick?”
Nick was the one they were discussing . . . the brother who hadn’t finished college or high school or something . . . there was something she should recall about him, but her head was so thick . . . oh Lord, what was it?
“Doesn’t Uncle Nick want to be in the family?” Cissy pressed, refusing to be put off, her voice beginning to sound far away.
Eugenia said, “Oh, honey, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
A pause. Marla imagined Eugenia and Alex trading looks, wondering how much of the family’s sordid past they could spill. “All right, Cissy,” the older woman said quietly, “since you asked. In times of family crises, like this one with your mother, it just seems right for everyone to stick together and kind of circle the wagons, show signs of family unity.”
“Circle the wagons against who?”
“Whom,” her grandmother corrected. “Don’t they teach you basic English at that school?”
“Okay, whom,” the girl repeated. “So who are they—the bad guys? This doesn’t make any sense. I just want Mom to wake up and be the same, okay? And . . . and I want her to look the same.” Her voice rose an octave. “Look at her, I mean, she doesn’t even look like herself.” Cissy sniffed loudly, then cleared her throat and Marla’s heart skipped a beat. If only she could say something to comfort her daughter, but she was so tired . . . “Nana, it’s like . . . it’s like you and Dad, you’re both afraid of something or someone. I just don’t get it.”
Alex stepped in. “We’re just worried about Mom, honey. That’s all. But she’s going to be all right. I’ve talked to Dr. Robertson, we just have to be patient. And there aren’t any bad guys,” Alex added, his voice surprisingly soft. Always before Marla had sensed a hardness underlying his words, but not this time, not while dealing with his daughter. “Nana was just using an analogy. Now, come on, isn’t there a soda machine down the hall? Here’s some change, run down there and get yourself a Coke or something.”
Marla felt a stab of tenderness for this man she couldn’t remember, but Cissy was having none of his platitudes.
“I think you’re keeping something from me. It’s because that woman was killed, right? That Pam woman died in the crash and Mom . . . Mom might be charged with murder or something, right? That’s . . . that’s why all the police are hanging around.”
Murder? What were they talking about? In a spurt of adrenalin, her mind cleared.
“Manslaughter. Not murder.”
What?
“Detective Paterno is only trying to figure out what happened. It was an accident, honey. No one was murdered. Your mom’s going to be fine. She’ll get better and come home, the police will ask her to tell them what happened and, I suspect, that will be the end of it.”
“Then why did you go and get Uncle Nick if it’s not a big deal?”
“It’s time Nick returned, okay?” he snapped, then caught himself. “Now, here . . .” There was the sound of jangling metal, keys or coins chinking softly. “Why don’t you run down to the machine in the cafeteria and bring Nana and me each a soda. Slice or Sprite, or whatever they’ve got. Get something for yourself, too.”
A clink of change.
Marla expected another argument, but there wasn’t much of one.
Cissy, grumbling under her breath, made her way to the door, her footsteps disappearing as the pain in Marla’s head began to return with a vengeance.
The temperature in the room had dropped twenty degrees. What was this talk of murder and manslaughter? Who was Pam? Oh, God, did I kill her? Marla’s heart raced, she felt sweat break out on the back of her neck. If only she could remember. If only she could ask questions and get some answers. If only she knew something!
“I hate to admit it,” Eugenia said, “after all he is my son, but I’m starting to doubt if it was a good idea to insist that Nick come home.”
“Wait a minute. This was your idea.”
“I know, I know,” she said as if shaking her head at her own folly. “I was upset with the accident and everything else . . . but there was that business between him and Marla.”
What? What business? Marla tried to open her mouth but couldn’t and though she was fighting the pull of unconsciousness, she felt herself being dragged under the weight to slip into the soft void of unawareness so overpowering she had to strain to hear the conversation.
“That was fifteen years ago.”
“He never got over it.”
“Of course he did, there were lots of women since.”
Alex sounded impatient. Edgy. As if the subject cut too close to the bone.
“None of those others lasted more than a few months. He and Marla—”
“I remember.” Alex’s voice was ice and Marla knew she should be concerned, but was sinking too quickly. “However we don’t have much choice, now, do we? I told him she spoke his name and he agreed to come.”
Did I speak? How? She didn’t remember being able to say anything and she ached to communicate in any way possible. Marla had thousands of questions to ask her family, questions about the baby, her daughter, her life. She tried to say something, to cough, to get their attention . . . Why couldn’t she speak? Her fingers curled in frustration.
“Did you see that?” Alex said quickly.
“What?”
“She moved. Look at her hand.”
Yes! Yes! I can hear you! Do you understand?
“Get the doctor,” Alex ordered. “Finally. Maybe she’s finally waking up!” There was an edge of excitement to his voice.
Her throat tightened with the thought that she was loved by this man to whom she was married, a man she couldn’t visualize.
“You mean she’s heard our conversation?” Eugenia asked, an icy fear in her voice.
“I . . . I suppose so.”
Then there was a silence, as if they were looking at each other, maybe mouthing words of caution, or just exchanging knowing glances.
Marla slowly let her hand relax and heard soft footsteps sidle to the bed. “Marla?” Alex asked, gently. “Honey, can you hear me? Just move your hand, sweetheart. Let me know that you’re okay. God, I’ve missed you.”
He sounded so sincere. She wanted to believe him. Oh, God, she wanted to trust that he loved her. He picked up her hand and held it in his.
“Squeeze my finger if you can hear me, darling. Come on. Give it a try.”
Marla willed her fingers to move, but her hands were stiff, her muscles unable to bend or shift.
“I think . . . I think I felt something,” Alex said.