by Jean Stone
“Rita?” he asked.
She stared at him a moment. He was filthy and disheveled and he wasn’t wearing shoes. The arm with the cast stood frozen in place without its sling. It was smeared with black soot. She wondered if he’d been in the fire with Kyle. Then she remembered that the fire was at his house, on his property, and that it was his fault Kyle was now in the room he was in, with God-only-knew-what being done to him.
She folded her arms and turned away.
“Rita,” his voice said from behind her. “I’m so sorry.”
She stared at the painted white wall, at the tacky oil painting of a sunset over the ocean.
“Has there been any word?” he asked. “Do you know how he’s doing?”
She balled her hands into fists and clenched them to her stomach. “Why?” she asked flatly. “Are you afraid we’re going to sue?”
Ben didn’t answer. The clock ticked off another minute. The orange circle on the canvas seemed to disappear beneath the horizon.
“I didn’t know he was going to be there,” Ben said. “I was next door at Sam Wilkins’s …”
“Which is where Kyle should have been,” Rita said. Quickly she turned on her heel. “Why wasn’t he, Ben? Why wasn’t he at that party instead of at your house?” Her head was pounding now; a lump had crawled into her chest.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
The nurse in white-trimmed-in-pink came into the room. “Mrs. Blair? The doctor would like to speak with you now.”
Rita looked at her. Fear drenched her body. The doctor would like to speak with you now. Not “You can see your son now,” or “Kyle is asking for you.” None of those words. Simply the doctor would like to speak with you now.
She shot a glance back to Ben. He stepped forward and took her arm. “I’ll go with you,” he said.
Rita wanted to pull her arm away. She wanted to punch his gut, slap his face. But the touch of his hand softened the steel in her heart. She sucked her cheeks between her teeth and let him guide her down the hall.
“Please, Mrs. Blair, sit down,” the doctor who looked no older than Kyle said when they entered the small cubicle with his name on the door. “Robert Palmer, M.D.,” the plaque read. Rita sat in another gray vinyl, waiting-room-like chair. Ben stood beside her.
Young Dr. Palmer leaned against a desk that was buried in file folders. He took off his glasses and held them in both hands. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good.”
Ben put his hand on her shoulder.
“Your son has third-degree burns over sixty percent of his body.”
She heard Ben let out a groan, but Rita sat silent, as rigid as the arm under Ben’s cast.
“We’re doing everything we can, but the prognosis is not good. Right now, he’s hanging on.”
Rita lifted her chin. How long do you think he’ll be in the hospital? she thought, wondering if there would be time to recheck those recipes, to go to the grocery store.
The doctor looked at Ben, then back to Rita. “If the situation were less critical, we’d airlift him to Boston.”
“Kyle hates flying.”
“In any event, we’ve ruled out that possibility.”
Rita nodded. “Good,” she responded. She studied her manicure. The tips of two fingers were chipped. She really must get home and redo them before she showed any houses tomorrow.
“Apparently you don’t understand,” the doctor said so softly she had to strain to hear.
She raised her head again and watched as he mouthed the words: “Your son’s chances of survival are slim.”
The air in the room was a vacuum that sucked the oxygen from her brain. The file folders, the desk, the doctor, began to blur, began to sway. Rita gripped the edges of her chair. “Could you speak a little louder?” she asked. “I seem to be having trouble with my ears.”
The doctor repeated what he’d said.
Ben stepped closer to her chair.
Rita’s eyes dropped to the glasses the doctor held in his hands. They were brown-framed, thick-lensed. What the fuck does he know about Kyle? she asked herself. The guy is half-blind. She looked back into his half-blind eyes. “When can I see him?”
“It will be a while. They’re still working on him.”
She closed her eyes, floating with the dizziness of the room. She did not want to think about what they were doing to her son. To her beautiful, handsome, strong, healthy son. She did not want to think about it, and she did not have to, because they had everything under control. They were working on him.
Her eyes flew open. They were working on him? Slowly, her head began to clear, her senses began to sharpen. They were working on Kyle because his chances were slim.
His chances were slim because he was going to die.
He was going to die.
Die.
“Shall we go back to the waiting room?” Ben asked.
“You can if you’d like,” the doctor said. “But I’m afraid it will be a long wait. You may prefer to go home and get some rest. I can call you to come back.”
Rita looked down at her bony, freckled knees, at the tiny purple veins blotched together by blood, blood that was under her skin pumping, proving that she was alive. She was alive, and so, for now, was Kyle.
“I’m not going anywhere,” her voice cracked. “My son is here and I will wait here.” It didn’t matter if it took an hour, a day, or a month. No one was going to make Rita Blair leave her son.
“I’ll stay with you,” Ben said. “And someone else is here, too. She’s out in the car.”
She couldn’t imagine what Ben meant.
“Jill,” he said slowly. “Jill’s here to be with you.”
They hugged for several minutes. Jill stroked her hand through Rita’s curls; Rita sobbed and sobbed until Jill feared her friend would come apart, limb by limb, seam by seam. Jill did not know or care where her tears stopped and Rita’s began—she only felt wet salt against her cheeks, and knew that this was right. No matter what Rita’s son had done, no matter what Rita had done, she was her friend, the one best friend Jill had ever known.
At last they moved to a corner of the waiting area and sat beside each another. Jill held firmly on to Rita’s hands, trying in vain to ease their trembling.
“Think I’ll go find some coffee,” Ben announced, then padded off in his stocking feet, leaving them alone.
“Oh, God, Jill,” Rita cried. “What am I going to do?”
“You are going to sit tight. And you are going to pray. We are both going to pray.”
“I don’t think I know how.”
“Me either. I guess I should have listened to my mother after all.”
Her comment brought a small smile to Rita’s lips. “She never liked me, did she?”
Jill took her hands from Rita’s. “My mother? Oh, I don’t know, Rita. I don’t think she liked anyone very much. Certainly not me.”
“You had a good home though, Jill. With two parents, who loved each other.”
Growing restless in her chair, Jill wished Rita would talk about something other than her parents. Other than her father, Kyle’s father. “Yes, well,” she said, “nothing’s perfect.”
Rita’s eyes were glazed as she stared across the room into nothingness. “I always envied you—that you had a father. He was a wonderful man.”
Jill rubbed one palm against the other. Here it comes, she thought. Rita’s hurting right now, so she’s going to exorcise her guilt. She’s going to tell the truth. Jill tried to remind herself that no matter what her friend told her now, it would be okay. And that no matter what, she would stay here and be with Rita, no matter how much it hurt. Because nothing Jill might feel could compare to Rita’s pain—the pain of having her only child, her son, lying down the hall, breathing his last breaths. Florence and George Randall were already dead. It didn’t matter what Rita said now. It didn’t matter if she needed to tell the truth. Jill looked down at her glittering diamond and wondered how she could m
ake Rita’s life easier. She wondered if she should mention it first, if she should open her mouth and say, “Rita, I know that my father was Kyle’s father.” But the glaze across Rita’s eyes and the mascara stains down her cheeks told Jill that Rita needed to do this herself. For her own sake. For Kyle’s.
“I don’t know what I would have done without your father when I got pregnant,” she said quietly. Then she turned her face to Jill. “You didn’t know that, did you? You didn’t know how much he helped me?”
I didn’t even know you were sleeping with him, Jill wanted to shout, but shook her head instead.
“I was so scared,” Rita continued. “Too scared to even tell you. I was so afraid everyone would find out. And that they’d think I was just like my mother.”
Jill blinked. “Your mother?”
“My mother was a whore,” Rita said flatly. “The father who left when I was ten probably wasn’t even mine. My mother screwed every guy from the island to the mainland and back again. As soon as any man touched ground on Martha’s Vineyard, they were fair game for Hazel Blair.”
Pressure began to build at Jill’s temples. “I didn’t know that, Rita. I never knew that.”
“Everyone else did. Your mother did.”
“My mother? Are you sure?”
Rita attempted a laugh. “Come on, Jill. Why do you think she didn’t like me? My mother worked for your father. Your mother knew who she was. She knew what she was.”
Jill put her hand on Rita’s once again. “Rita, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t we ever talk about this before now?”
“What could you have done? Made my mother stop? Made me stop? Made it so I never would have gotten pregnant?”
“I don’t know, Rita. Maybe if we’d talked …”
“You were determined to get away from here. There was nothing I could do to stop you.”
“But you were pregnant …”
“It wasn’t your problem. It wasn’t your concern.”
They sat in silence. Jill heard the clock tick once, then twice.
“Rita,” she asked quietly, “you said my father helped you, but he should have done more.”
“More? God, Jill, your father did more than you know. He gave me two thousand dollars to run away. To go off to Worcester. To have the baby. To have my Kyle.” She shook her head. Tears spilled down her cheeks once more. “I don’t know if it was because he felt sorry for me or what, but your father did more for me than the baby’s father could have done.”
Jill stared at Rita. She blinked again, then stared at the floor. She raised her eyes and stared at the wall, the clock. Had she heard her right? Had she really heard her right? “Rita,” she whispered at last, “tell me about the baby’s father. Kyle’s father.”
Staring across the room a moment, Rita answered, “He never knew. He still doesn’t know. He was too good for me, Jill. I cared about him too much, and I wasn’t going to ruin his life … ruin it by being stuck with me, of all people, and by having everyone around here talk.”
“Ruin his life? What about your life?”
“My life wasn’t ruined. I had Kyle.”
“Rita,” Jill said slowly, carefully, “there was no soldier in Worcester, was there?”
“No.”
She swallowed hard; she clenched her jaw. “Rita?” she asked. “Who is Kyle’s father?”
Rita hung her head. Her red curls were limp, damp, unraveled. She laced her fingers together, as though knitting the shards of her thoughts. “Kyle’s father,” she answered quietly, “is Charlie Rollins.”
Chapter 25
Just before dawn, the doctor came and told them that Rita could sit with Kyle. “He’s in a coma,” the doctor warned her. “But you can stay with him if you like.” Rita nodded and stood on shaky legs. “I have to warn you, he is heavily bandaged. We’ve brought a small bed into his room, in case you’d like to get some rest.”
Jill and Ben walked with her to Kyle’s room: it was small and dim, with a strong odor of antiseptic, the persistent beep of a heart monitor, and the mournful squish-squish of a respirator. The figure that lay on the bed was shrouded in white, with tubes going in and coming out of different parts of him … of Kyle, Jill realized and took a step back.
“Rita,” Ben whispered, “I think Jill and I should leave you alone with him. But we’ll come back later, okay?”
Rita did not look back to Jill and Ben. She simply stood by the bedside and stared at her son. “That would be nice,” she said. “Kyle would like that.”
Jill gazed out the window as Ben drove down Water Street, thinking about Rita, thinking about Kyle. She wondered if her mother had ever learned the truth, or if she had died believing that her husband had cheated on her, had fathered a child by a young island girl. She was glad she had not told Rita about the diary. She was glad she had not upset her friend more than she already was. Some secrets, Jill thought, were best left alone. Or shared with someone as objective—as kind—as Ben.
When they reached the intersection for the road to the tavern, Jill turned to Ben. “You can drop me off here,” she said, “I want to go to the tavern. I’m going to leave a note for Charlie and tell him what has happened.”
Ben gestured to the early pink sky. “It’s a little early for him to be open, Jill.”
“I know how to get in.”
He pulled to the curb.
Her body ached and her mind was numb with exhaustion. Jill walked down the alley and went to the Dumpster, where she quickly found the crowbar in its place. As she pried open the lock, she realized that the one person she hadn’t blamed was her father. Perhaps she believed that her mother deserved to be betrayed. But that had been before she had known the real Florence Randall—the woman concealed within the pages of the diary, the vulnerable, sad woman, stranded in pain.
The latch popped and Jill opened the door. She stepped into the quiet kitchen, the way she and Rita had done only a couple of weeks before. But now there was no laughter, no sounds that would haunt her, perhaps, for the rest of her life. She looked quickly around for a piece of paper, then decided to check in the dining room near the waitress station.
As she pushed open the swinging door, Jill stopped. Seated at a table, his head bent, a mug of coffee in front of him, sat Charlie.
“Jill,” he said, looking up. “What are you doing here?”
“Charlie,” Jill said and walked closer to him. “Are you all right?”
“I was up half the night.”
“Me, too.” She pulled out a chair and sat beside him. “Charlie, there’s something you might want to know.”
“I heard about Kyle.”
Jill nodded.
“How’s he doing? Is he …?”
She shook her head. “He’s still alive. But it doesn’t look good.”
He picked up a spoon and stirred his coffee. “Is Rita with him?”
“Yes. I’m going back later.”
“He’s mine, isn’t he?”
His words came so quickly, she didn’t know how to react. She hadn’t planned to tell Charlie that Kyle was his son. She’d decided to leave that up to Rita, if Rita felt he should know.
“Perhaps you should go to the hospital,” she said. “I think you and Rita have a lot to talk about.”
He nodded slowly. “She never wanted me. All these years I’ve loved her, but she never wanted me.”
“Maybe she felt it was you who didn’t want her,” Jill said. “Maybe she felt she wasn’t good enough for you.”
Charlie raised his eyebrows. “I’d have done anything for that woman.”
Jill stood. “Then do something now, Charlie. Go to her. Be there for her. Right now, Rita needs all the friends she can find.”
Carol Ann was standing in the kitchen when Ben returned. In her plain cotton robe and terry slippers, she could have been Louise. She sipped from her coffee cup and turned to face him. Tears coated her eyes. “Dad,” was all she said.
Ben held open his good arm. Carol
Ann walked forward and leaned into him, wrapping both arms around his back, squeezing him tightly, as she had not done since she was a little girl. Ben closed his eyes and let her love flow into him—this wonderful daughter who was very much his, very much here, and very much alive.
“Dad, I’ve been so worried,” she cried. “If anything had happened to you … well, I just love you so much.”
He pushed down his own tears, wondering how long it had been since she’d said those words, if she ever had at all. He realized now that for two people who had not been born in New England, he and Louise had sadly adopted the tradition of not speaking their feelings, of holding back their emotions. He made a pledge to put an end to that now, right here, in Carol Ann’s kitchen.
“I love you, too, honey,” he said, “more than you’ll ever know.”
She squeezed him gently, then pulled back and touched his cheek. “You need coffee.”
“I’ll make it.”
Carol Ann laughed. “You can’t make coffee with one arm.”
Ben looked down at his dangling white plaster. “Right,” he said. “I forgot.”
She smiled and touched his other cheek, then went to the sink and took the coffeepot from the burner. The red button, Ben noticed, was on, though the pot was almost drained.
“Looks like you’ve already had a few cups,” he noted.
“I haven’t had much sleep,” she said, rinsing the pot and refilling the basket with dark Colombian blend, Ben’s favorite. “Terry Clarkson stopped by last night. He told us what happened. And about Kyle.”
Ben pulled out an oak kitchen chair and sat at the table. He took a banana from the ever-present centerpiece of fresh fruit and began to peel. “Kyle’s holding his own. But he’s in bad shape.”
“Do you think he’ll pull through?”
“No.” He blinked as he peeled back the skin. It was the first time he’d said it out loud, that Kyle wasn’t going to make it, that Kyle was going to die. He hoped to hell he was wrong.
“Well, it’s in God’s hands, Dad.”