What could make a little lady so mad? Willie better not be the cause. Needed to go outside and check. He might be little more than the straw boss these days, but he were still the daddy.
Oh, sweet Jesus, no. Hey You and Willie were arguin’. Even a blind person could see his Willie and Hey You were in love. When a man and a woman were in love, they shouldn’t make it so hard. Did he need to give them a good talkin’-to? Made a real nice couple. Handsome, too. Maybe Freddie would come live with them. Now that would be somethin’, to be part of a family again. You could surround yourself with people, but if they weren’t kin, it didn’t make a lick of difference.
And his boy were half-naked. He couldn’t be takin’ off his clothes again.
And now Hey You were walkin’ away and she looked real upset. Had Willie upset her? When a man and a woman were in love, they shouldn’t be throwin’ anger at each other. He’d brought Willie up better than that. He didn’t get angry with his Angeline, not even that time she...what? What did his angel do?
“You cryin’, Angel?” he asked Hey You.
“Allergies.” She smiled, but it weren’t a real smile. That weren’t good, that weren’t no good. He felt a bit like yellin’ hisself. What were Willie thinkin’? He brought him up better than that. He taught him to love and cherish and protect.
He put out his arms and she stepped in. Hey You needed one of his special hugs.
“Son.” He tried to sound harsh. Time to be the medicine. Medicine didn’t taste good, not at all, but it were necessary, to make you better. That’s how it goes. And Willie needed to take some medicine, because he couldn’t be makin’ his mama cry, not like he did at that powwow.
Only time he ever saw Willie mad. Mad weren’t no good. Willie were real mad that day. Damned if he could remember why. Remembered Willie leavin’, though, sayin’ he weren’t never comin’ back, and he were as good as his word. Near broke his mama’s heart. Or did he come back? C.R.S., C.R.S. But the boy didn’t come back for his own mama’s funeral. That much he knew.
Willie looked real sad and Hey You looked real sad. Willie had a lot to learn about women.
“Here, Angel.” He pulled out a tissue from his pocket.
He’d never let Angeline out of his sight for longer than a day. Without her... His poor, beautiful Angeline. He were real tired, real tired. Needed to lie down. Didn’t like to see a lady so upset. Certainly not this pretty gal with the big blue eyes.
Where was his Angeline? His mind were popping like firecrackers. Needed to go lie down. Sleep for a bit before dinner.
“Willie? I need to go lie down. Rest a bit.”
“We have to talk first, Dad,” Will said.
“I need to nap, son. Busy afternoon. Hey You and me, we finished them new dream catchers.”
“Dream catchers?” Willie looked at Hey You, but she weren’t lookin’ back.
“Your father’s been having nightmares about Freddie. The last dream catcher we made didn’t work, so we’re trying again.” She smiled. Smile of an angel.
“I told him it was my bad,” Hey You said. “That I didn’t know what I was doing the first time around. This time, though, we’re going to make sure we trap all the nightmares.”
Will squirmed like he did when he were a tyke and got into trouble with that friend of his. Pretty little thing. Ran wild all over the mountain, them two. Weren’t no one’s fault she didn’t love him right.
Had to talk to Willie about not walkin’ around naked in front of the womenfolk. Will liked to walk around naked. Liked to sleep naked, too. He told him just the other day not to do that with them womenfolk around. And look at him—half-naked again. Kids didn’t always listen. Hard bein’ the daddy sometimes. Real hard.
“Let’s go in, Dad. We need to talk,” Will said, although he sounded more like the daddy. That weren’t right, though. Will weren’t a daddy.
* * *
Will hauled himself downstairs, leaning heavily on the railing. One step at a time. That was the key to moving through the living, breathing nightmare of this endless day. His feet were freezing. He should’ve taken two minutes to sit down on the bed and pull on socks, but the bed had looked too inviting. If he lay down, he might never get up.
His dad was standing in the middle of the living room, arms behind his back, frowning at the world map lit up with colored stars and photos like a decorated Christmas tree. Would Azalea Court let them stick stuff up on the walls?
One more day and this episode of his life would be over. One more day and he would be back in his sterile apartment. With any luck, it would still be warm enough to sit out in the roof garden.
“How about I fix us hot chocolate with marshmallows?” A peace offering before he delivered the blow.
His dad turned and looked at him with the face of someone who’d given up on life. “Willie, did somethin’ bad happen to Freddie?”
Will grabbed the newel post. He tried to speak, tried to spit out a simple, Why would you ask? His jaw was moving, he could feel it open and close, but no words fell out. Sonic booms seemed to pound through his head and vibrate down into his chest; his stomach clenched as if about to hurl its meager contents up through his throat.
“Your mama used to fix you hot chocolate with marshmallows.” The old man gave a laugh and shook his head. “Now, before you say anythin’, I know it weren’t very good. I saw you dump it down the sink. But she were tryin’, Willie. She didn’t always get it right, but she never stopped tryin’ with you.”
So that was it? Truth attacked and then fled? The memory lapses were coming closer and closer together—a salvo of short fuse detonation. The sooner he got his dad settled with professional help, the better. There could be no more indecision on his part, no more doubt. Maybe they should forget the milky drinks and head straight for the liquor. Sign the deal in alcohol.
Will straightened up and inhaled the subtle scent of pine that seemed to linger in every room of the cottage. Even when he was cooking, he could still smell it. “Tell me more about your nightmares.”
“Not much to tell, son. Just my useless mind trickin’ me into believin’ bad things happened to Freddie. It’s hard when the devil visits in the middle of the night. Don’t know what I’d do without them stories of Freddie’s great adventure.”
Will glanced at the cardboard tube propped up in the corner. His dad had left it there on the day they moved in as if he’d known all along they wouldn’t be staying.
“Your mama, now, she could tell a mighty fine story. You, too, son. I hope Freddie has the family gift. Wouldn’t that be somethin’? Three generations of storytellers. Think Freddie’ll come visit us after his trip?”
“Sit, Dad. We have to talk.” Will fell into one of the big club chairs.
“Then you’ll give me the Freddie update, right?”
“Yeah, Dad. I’ll give you the update.” Although the itinerary had disappeared from his radar, displaced by real-life drama. And for the first time, the idea of returning to his research felt like a chore, not a pleasure. Had Freddie’s story stalled, too?
Groaning slowly, his dad lowered himself into the chair across from the coffee table angled between them like the world’s tallest dam. Will bit down on impatience, on his desire to leap up and help. His dad was eighty—moving slowly was his entitlement. He could almost hear Hannah talking about dignity and pride.
“Dad, I’m going back to New York. Tomorrow.” Will took a deep breath; his dad said nothing, just stared hard. “And you can come with me, or you can move into a place called Azalea Court. An apartment just opened up, and it’s yours if you want it.”
“No need for either, son.” His dad had yet to blink. “Poppy’s goin’ to come here once you leave. Not quite sure what we’re doin’ with her kilns, but we’ll figure that out. We expect you to visit often. You’ll be back for Chris
tmas? With Freddie?”
Poppy had kept this preposterous idea alive in his dad’s mind? She was manipulative as hell, but he’d expected more of her. Will pulled forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“Listen, Dad. You can’t stay here, and Poppy shouldn’t have told you otherwise. It’s not fair on Hannah. Her son had a breakdown.”
“Crazy One?”
“Yeah. Remember the ambulances last night? They came for him. He’s in the mental hospital. And when he comes out, he’s going to need his mother’s full attention.”
His dad nodded. “I reckon he needs that now, son. Ain’t right for him to be in the nuthouse. He should be here, with his kinfolk. You spring him. Crazy One likes you.”
“Dad, I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. I have to get back to New York. I was hoping you’d come with me, but if you want to stay in Orange County, you’ll have to move into Azalea Court. It isn’t far. In fact, it’s close enough that Hannah and Poppy can visit whenever they want. I’m sorry, but staying here, in the cottage, isn’t an option. It would only be selfish.”
Pushing off the arms of the chair, the old man wobbled up to standing. He peeled down the map, pausing to smooth out the pictures Hannah had pasted on for him. Then he rolled the map up tightly and slotted it into the cardboard tube. The kitchen clock ticked, and his dad muttered something incomprehensible. Then he pulled the roll to his chest as if protecting a swaddled newborn.
“Can I see the forest from this place of yours, the one you’ve found for me?” There was a droplet of spit on his dad’s bottom lip.
“They have a nice garden. With lots of trees. And there’s a library filled with history books. I checked.”
“And you, son, you ever gonna come back and visit? Or you gonna be too busy with that life in New York?” His dad turned. “Think I’ll go to bed now if you don’t mind. Have me an early night.”
“Wait, the hot chocolate—”
“Don’t want no hot chocolate.”
“But dinner? You have to eat.”
“I’m tired, son. Real tired. Sleep’s the only thing a man wants at my age.”
His dad stopped on the bottom stair. “I’ll leave for one reason—I won’t be no trouble for Hannah. She’s a good woman. She deserves better than the pair of us.”
“Dad—wait, please—”
“You need to learn a lesson about parentin’, son. A father, he has a responsibility to give his kids roots and wings. I failed you, Willie. I gave you wings, I never gave you roots. Don’t repeat my mistake. Let Freddie follow the trail of his people. Let him come visit me and his grandmama’s grave. Give him roots.”
Will’s head sank into his hands.
Too late, Dad. Too late to give him anything.
The stairs creaked one by one as his dad climbed toward bed.
Half an hour and he’d take up an omelet, fixed the way the old man liked it with green pepper and onion and Swiss cheese. And lots of black pepper.
But first... Will picked up his iPhone from the coffee table.
Found place for Dad. He typed a text to his agent. Back this weekend. Let’s talk Monday.
Talk about what, though? He still hadn’t figured out how to rescue Agent Dodds, and he no longer cared. He hit Send before he could reconsider. There, he’d set his plan in motion. Now all he had to do was leave.
Thirty-Two
Beads of rain clung to spiderwebs strung between branches like celebratory bunting, chickadees and cardinals called to one another and Hannah’s old hiking boots squelched through soggy undergrowth. A light wind rustled dying leaves that clung on and refused to let go, and sunrise streaked through the treetops on Saponi Mountain.
Thirty-three hours since her son had tried to kill himself. Thirty-three hours that felt like thirty-three years.
Hannah pulled out her phone. No service up here. What if Galen was trying to reach her with the password of the day? Ridiculous worry—it was far too early for him to call. The night staff were probably still on shift at the locked psych ward.
Locked psych ward. Three words that made her want to scream until she was hoarse. But this time—thanks to Will—she could see her son, something she hadn’t been able to arrange after the first suicide attempt. Not one but two. Two suicide attempts forever stamped across his medical files. A repeating pattern. He might not have actually cut himself the first time, but he had been suicidal.
Third attempt lucky, a dark thought taunted.
Hannah huddled into her hoodie and kept walking. Yesterday’s cold front had blasted the temperatures into fall. The drought and never-ending Indian summer were already forgotten. Winter would soon be tapping on her door, and she welcomed it.
Following the route of the old trading path, Hannah veered right at the conservation easement sign. With the trails hidden beneath layers of leaves, it would be easy to get lost on the mountain, but intuition guided her.
Random thoughts tumbled. When she got the call about Galen in September, it had seemed vital to find the positive, to use work as a way of regulating a life that was spiraling into anarchy. And yet today nothing mattered beyond the basics. Life had compressed into a bite-sized to-do list: exercise the dogs, eat breakfast, get to the hospital. In September and October she’d wanted to hold on to normalcy; in November she wanted to let go.
My son wanted to die.
Brushing aside a branch, she paused to stare at her left hand. For the first time in years, the absence of a wedding ring stung. Alone, she would be handling this alone.
I will not cry when I see my baby.
I will be strong enough for two.
I will not cry—
The tears came, and Hannah kept walking. Maybe it was better to give in. To grieve for the little boy she had lost, to accept the man he had become. Life could never be the same, nor should it be. She would grieve now, with no one else around, and by the time she arrived at the hospital, she would be ready to step inside this new phase of her life. This ugly twist of motherhood that she had no choice but to embrace. There was no out, there was no reprieve; there was only forward motion, because whatever the future held, she would be Galen’s mother until the day she died.
Since her father’s suicide—yes, she would use that word until it no longer hacked at her heart—she’d been running from the very thing she should have been running toward: the knowledge that depression was a family disease, that she could pass on the defective gene as easily as she could pass on color blindness. If only she had been hypervigilant, watched for signs of depression. If only she had listened the way her mother had encouraged her to do.
But no, always she needed people to be happy, because if her mother had been right—that Hannah, too, could hear the thoughts of others and experience the horror of their darkness—then being psychic was also genetic. Unlike Will’s mom, her mother was never labeled mad, never called a freak, but still, their family was different. Come Halloween, her mother was the parent handing out crystals, not candy.
Had the desire to be the same, to blend in, been the reason she’d turned her back on negative emotions time and time again? Was this why Inigo’s betrayal had blindsided her; why she had blocked Galen’s depression; why she had devoted her life to finding peace in death?
Death—the lunar halo that now surrounded her son.
How could she look Galen in the eye and not wonder about the scar that could never heal? For twelve years she’d shielded him from the stigma of suicide, but once the bandages came off, he would be forever branded a suicide survivor. The world would stare; the world would judge. And she could not protect her son.
She should never have followed Galen’s lead in the past month, never have been satisfied with, “I’m in touch with my therapist and social worker in California.” Why had she not snooped, monitored, intervened?
And yet. And yet.
She’d had no power then, and she had no power now.
The doctors couldn’t discuss his case with her. She would have to be satisfied with secondhand information edited from Galen’s perspective. He was beyond her legal grasp; she was powerless, and the only person they both trusted to help was heading back to New York.
Black tree trunks surrounded her like mourners gathered around a grave, closing in to offer comfort. Hannah released her mood into the forest, let it reverberate off the trees and bounce back with solace.
The wind shook dew from the branches of a small sassafras with mismatched foliage the color of burnished orange. Three different-shaped leaves on the same tree and aromatic bark. Nature at its most resplendent. Hannah admired a clump of wild ginger, stooped down and ran her fingers through the fronds of a fat fern.
With a sigh, she stood and sidestepped a fallen tree limb covered in moss so bright it seemed to light her way. She filled her lungs with the scent of pine needles and raised her face to the high-pitched whistle of a tufted titmouse. Farther up the mountain, a pileated woodpecker piped. Even in the darkest moments, the birds sang. They never stopped singing.
Galen could look like hell and still she would give him a mother’s kiss, stroke his hair and show him how proud she was to be his parent. Her touch would reveal that her love was nonnegotiable, that she would always see him with the wonder that said, That’s my son. My son.
An owl swooped in front of her, warning her off its roosting spot, protecting its own little corner of the world, and the dogs startled a herd of white-tailed deer. Six deer sprung through the trees, racing away from a perceived threat, surviving as a pack, as a family.
Her family would survive. Her idiosyncratic, dysfunctional family would survive. Galen was alive and he was safe. For today, that was enough. And when he came out? Anyone could feed and love a newborn, but a young man battling depression deserved a parent who would not falter, who would not flinch. She would be that parent.
In-between Hour (9781460323731) Page 28