"What are you doing?" Meg let out a strangled cry and grabbed for the hand that held the knife. "Amber, stop!"
"I can't... I just can't—" She flung the knife aside and put her hands to her face. Tears came unbidden, and she could not push them back. For a few minutes she sat there, sobbing, vaguely aware of Meg's hand stroking her back, attempting to soothe her, calm her.
"Amber?" Meg's whisper finally pushed into her consciousness, as if from far away. "That smaller figure holding on—that's your sister, isn't it? The one you told me about, back in Raleigh?"
Amber nodded and dragged a response to the surface. "Yes."
"And the one spinning her around is you." Meg pointed toward the larger figure, the older girl in the sculpture, still standing there with her hands outstretched, the grisly remains of the little one's fingers dangling in space.
"Yes."
Meg's arm slid around Amber's shoulders and squeezed. "You still miss her, don't you?"
"I try not to." Amber shrugged. "I guess I just need to give myself time to forget. It's only been—oh, twenty years, give or take a few." She attempted a weak smile.
"You never forget family," Meg murmured. "For better or worse, they're always with you."
"Mostly worse." Amber took a ragged breath and began to cry again.
Meg sat very still, holding her friend while the tears came and subsided, then came again. She hated this feeling of helplessness, but all she could do for the moment was be there.
From the earliest days of their friendship, years ago in Raleigh, Amber had always held back. The two of them had connected from the beginning, but while Meg talked openly about her emotional struggles, her progress in therapy, her recovery from the devastating effects of her ex-husband's abuse, Amber had mostly listened, volunteering very little information about herself.
Meg knew the basics about Amber's life, of course. The background of financial security and entitlement. The powerful father and sweet, submissive mother. The little sister she had barely become acquainted with before she had been sent away. The pain of being cut off, isolated, swept aside.
But there was a great deal Amber hadn't told Meg, huge dark pieces of her story that still lay shrouded in shadow. What had happened to her to send her over the edge in the first place? How had this daughter of wealth and privilege fallen so far?
Meg had watched while Amber floundered through the early stages of her own recovery, sinking deeper into depression like a doe caught in quicksand. And then, with Meg on the sidelines cheering her on, Amber discovered her talent for making things out of clay. Her life turned around. She found purpose and direction and an outlet for her emotions.
Art had been Amber Chaney's salvation. At least for a while. By the time Amber was released from Raleigh, Meg had reestablished her life here in Kitsap County. Twojoe was still living in California, and their mother, alone in the big log house, had encouraged Meg to move back home. It was the obvious choice: for one thing, it was nearly a continent removed from her ex-husband, Bart, whom she devoutly hoped never to see again. In addition, the tranquillity and beauty of the place stirred Meg's soul and brought her peace.
Inviting Amber to come and live with them was an easy decision, the natural outworking of their friendship. Amber needed somewhere to go, and the Elkhorn place had more than enough room. Perhaps the serenity Meg had found here would seep into Amber's soul and bring her some quietness of mind and heart as well. It was the one thing Meg could do to help her friend find healing.
For a while, it seemed to work. Amber loved being here; she would sit for hours on the deck, just gazing across the canal to the ever-changing play of light on Mount Constance and The Brothers, some of the highest peaks in the Olympic Mountain Range. She purchased a secondhand kiln and set up a studio in the barn, turning out the loveliest pottery anyone in Kitsap County had ever seen. She encouraged Meg to buy a loom and take up weaving, and within a year they began to show a profit. A minor profit, anyway. During tourist season in the nostalgic little town of Viking Junction, the shops that ran along the waterfront of Liberty Bay were filled with Amber's delicately colored stoneware and Meg's hand-woven llama wool rugs. They weren't rich, by any means, but at least they sold enough on consignment to sock away money for the rainy winter months.
They lived like sisters, sharing each other's lives, supporting each other's hopes and dreams. Amber forged a deep bond with Meg's mother, Beatrice, whom she affectionately called "Elkie." She began to loosen up, to laugh more. Meg began to believe that they had outrun the darkness.
Then, suddenly, a little more than a year ago, something happened.
Meg didn't know if it was really Rick Knutson's fault that Amber ricocheted back into the past, but the timing indicated that, at the very least, her relationship with him had triggered some memory or opened an old wound. Rick wasn't the right kind of man for Amber anyway; he was a bad debt—self-centered, completely insensitive to anyone's needs except his own. He made promises he had no intention of keeping, and when he left, Amber began to sink.
She grew morose and irritable. She slept fitfully, often awakening with nightmares. Slowly, she began a downward spiral into a gray and empty place where Meg could not follow.
Nothing seemed to help. After Meg's mother died, months of grief compounded Amber's depression, and her inability to work resulted in the added stress of financial insecurity. Twojoe's appearance on the scene seemed to ease Amber's burden a little, until it became obvious that Meg's brother harbored his own romantic feelings for Amber. He never pressured her, and he was always tender and compassionate, but the very fact of his presence seemed to make her agitated and uncomfortable.
And now this. The mutilated sculpture. Amber's uncontrollable weeping. Her ongoing depression. The palpable presence of some oppression in her, some secret she couldn't reveal, even to her closest friend.
Meg was no novice when it came to therapy. She had been around the block a few times herself, and she knew the signs. And as much as she resisted the idea, it was time for an intervention.
Meg waited for a few minutes more while Amber cried herself out. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and her breath still came in fitful gasps, but at least she was a little more composed.
"Can we talk now?"
Amber nodded.
"We've been friends for a long time," Meg began cautiously. "And we've gone through a lot together."
"Yeah."
"And we always promised we'd tell each other the truth."
Amber contorted her face in a cynical grin. "Just when did we make this promise? Remind me."
Meg smiled briefly. At least she was still able to joke about it; that was a positive sign. "You've been going downhill emotionally, Amber. Ever since . . . well, ever since Rick."
"Rick doesn't have anything to do with this."
"Maybe not. But his presence in your life—or his leaving—seems to have triggered this depression. I think—" She paused, summoning courage. "I think you need to see someone who can help you deal with this."
Amber lowered her head and stared at the ruined statue on the sculpting table. With one trembling finger she reached out and touched the severed hands. "I guess you're right. But—"
"But what?"
"Therapy is expensive, Meg. You know how it is. I can barely afford basic health insurance, and it sure doesn't cover ninety bucks an hour for counseling."
"I have a suggestion."
Amber looked up. "All right, let's hear it."
"Well, you know that Twojoe and I attend All Saints' Episcopal most Sundays. Our rector has a Ph.D. in psychology and is a licensed counselor, so—"
"A priest?" Amber bristled. "Absolutely not. For one thing, there's no way I'm going to pour my guts out to a man. I've had it up to here with them—" She shook her head vehemently. "No. A man would never understand. Not in a million years."
Meg held up a hand. "This priest's name," she said quietly, "happens to be Susan. And she's good. Very g
ood."
"A woman priest?" Amber stared at Meg. "Well, that's a switch. How do you know she's so good?"
"I've talked to her. She was married once—for seven years, as I recall."
"Great. Not just a priest. Not just a woman priest. A divorced woman priest."
"She finally left her husband after he beat her within an inch of her life."
Silence descended between them, and Meg could almost see the wheels turning in Amber's mind. She caught Amber's eyes and held them. "The abuse had been going on since their honeymoon," she continued quietly. "Susan understands. She's been there."
The skeptical expression on Amber's face softened a bit. "Is she going to try to convert me?"
Meg laughed, a welcome relief from the tension. "I doubt it."
Amber exhaled a sigh so heavy it sounded as if it were dredged up from the very depths of her soul. Meg followed her gaze as it drifted toward the table, where the crumpled clay figure of a little girl lay with her arms outstretched.
"I have to do something," she said at last. "Call her."
12
Father Susan
In the hallway outside the closed office door, Amber squirmed and shifted on the unforgiving chair. It wasn't a chair, actually, but a segment of old church pew, sawed to a width of about four feet and held upright by the bench ends glued back in place. Her artistic mind relished the aesthetics of the piece: its intricate grain, the living luster of the oak, buffed to a rich, dark sheen by the oil of thousands of human hands that had touched it on thousands of Sunday mornings. Her lower parts, however, found less to appreciate; the hard wood had put her butt to sleep ten minutes ago, and now a tingle, like a mild electric shock, traveled up and down her sciatic nerve.
She rose, stretched, and walked over to the door, peering at the name-plate: Rev. Dr. Susan Quentin, Rector.
What did you call a woman priest, anyway? Most Episcopalians referred to their clergy as Father, but that felt like more of a gender shift than Amber was comfortable with. Mother, perhaps? No, that was a designation for the head of a convent. Sister indicated a Catholic nun. Reverend Doctor seemed just a bit stilted and overblown. Maybe something simpler, more to the point, like Your Excellency.
She shouldn't have come. This was getting far too complicated, and she hadn't even met the woman yet. If she didn't know how to address Susan Quentin on their first meeting, how on earth did Amber expect to be able to—
The door swung open, and Amber found herself nose to nose with Father Susan.
"You must be Amber Chaney," she said, extending a hand. "Come on in."
Amber didn't know quite what she had expected, but Susan Quentin definitely wasn't it. She was a tiny, slender woman, about Meg's size, with reddish-blonde hair layered back from her face and eyes an unusual mingling of gray and blue. She wore stonewashed jeans, white leather tennis shoes, and a black clerical shirt under a cable-knit rag wool cardigan. How old was this woman? She didn't look more than twenty. Amber entertained a fleeting image of some pimply faced clerk asking her to show ID before she could buy communion wine.
"Please, have a seat," she said, motioning toward a small sofa and a pair of cushy leather chairs that looked as if they'd been around as long as the parish itself. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, a soft drink?"
"Bottled water would be great, if you have it." Amber chose one of the chairs and settled her numb posterior gratefully into the soft padding.
The woman went to a small refrigerator in the corner and returned with two bottles of water. She handed one to Amber, then set the other on the coffee table and adjusted the second chair at an angle before she sat down. "You have questions, I assume?"
The primary questions on Amber's mind were Can I see your driver's license? and What the heck do I call you? The first question seemed rude, so she opted for the second, somewhat censored. "I'm not sure how to address you," she admitted. "Father? Doctor? Reverend?"
"Ah, the age-old question. One of the many dilemmas caused by the ordination of women." The priest threw back her head and laughed—a mellow, musical sound that instantly put Amber more at ease. "How do you feel about Susan?"
Amber let out a pent-up breath. "Fine by me. You're a psychologist, Meg tells me—as well as a minister?"
Susan nodded toward the wall above the sofa. "Licensed by the State of Washington, ordained by the Episcopal church."
Amber's eyes drifted to the collection of framed credentials: Certificate of Ordination, License for the Practice of Clinical Psychology, Diplomas from Columbia University, Notre Dame, Yale Divinity School, University of Washington. "You've been around, I see."
"My former husband was a university professor, first at Columbia, then at Notre Dame. I received my bachelor's and master's degrees from the colleges where he was teaching at the time."
Amber frowned, trying to assimilate this bit of information. "A professor? But Meg said—" She stopped, unsure how to proceed.
"Meg told you my ex-husband was an abuser." She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. "He was. He was also head of his department at Notre Dame, a Rhodes Scholar, Outstanding Professor two years in a row, and a very accomplished liar." She gazed at Amber and waved one hand thoughtfully. "Abuse—physical, sexual, emotional, whatever—is not limited to one ethnic or social sector. It crosses all boundaries of race and class and wealth and status."
Amber looked into Susan Quentin's eyes, and suddenly she didn't seem so young and inexperienced anymore. Penetrating eyes, whose color deepened in intensity with increased concentration. Old eyes, that looked as if they had witnessed every terrible thing the world had to offer, and still survived.
"Well, enough about me, let's talk about you." Susan paused for just a heartbeat. "What do you think of me?"
Her timing was perfect, and Amber laughed out loud at the familiar Bette Midler punch line. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad. Maybe Susan Quentin did have something to offer her—something besidesthe pat answers and meaningless jargon she expected from religious people.
Susan set a small tape recorder on the coffee table. "Do you mind if we tape our sessions? It's easier for me to focus if I don't have to take notes."
This was nothing new. All her therapy sessions in Raleigh had been taped, and after the first few times Amber hadn't even noticed. "Sure, I'm used to it."
"You've been in counseling before."
"In North Carolina. I was committed for five years," Amber answered bluntly. "That's where—" She caught herself before she said, That's where I met Meg. Would it be a violation of confidentiality if she divulged that bit of information?
"Where you met Meg Elkhorn." Susan completed the sentence as if she'd read Amber's mind. "It's all right; I know about that."
"What else do you know about me?"
"Not much. Only that you're a friend of Meg and Twojoe's, and that you came here to start a new life after you were released." Susan smiled faintly. "Oh, and that Meg loves you like a sister."
Amber felt herself flinch, and she averted her eyes.
"Did I hit a nerve?"
"Well, yes, a little bit," Amber admitted.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
Amber sighed. She might as well get into it, she supposed. That's why she came here, after all. It wouldn't do any good to postpone the inevitable. "Where do I start? My unhappy childhood?"
Susan chuckled. "Maybe something a bit less stereotypical. First I'd like to hear about your life now. You're an artist, is that right?"
"I do a little sculpture," Amber responded. "But I make my living as a potter. Vases, stoneware, that kind of thing."
"A potter. Then you already know a lot about the way God works in people's lives."
Amber felt herself recoil. Here we go, she thought. The God speech. She knew it would come to this eventually. This woman might be a psychologist, but she was also a priest. And a priest's job was to convert people, to bring them into the fold. "I'm afraid I don't respond very positively to the image of God as
a potter, manhandling people, crushing them up and molding them into something other than what they are." She tried to keep her voice even, but the words came out curt and cynical.
Susan, however, didn't seem the least bit ruffled by her rudeness. "I was thinking more along the lines of God taking something that seems shapeless or common and creating a work of enduring beauty and usefulness."
For just a flicker of a moment, something in the image appealed to Amber. That was, after all, what she did every day of her life, and it was refreshing to think that a Divine Being might share that kind of creative passion. But she wasn't going to get sucked into that whirlpool again. She held her ground. "Do we have to talk about God?"
"Not if you don't want to."
"I don't believe in God." Amber let the words settle for a moment, then amended, "Actually, that's not technically correct. I do acknowledge the premise of a Higher Power. I can't help accepting that much, seeing the beauty of nature all around us. But I don't believe in a God who can be trusted."
"You don't accept God as a loving Father, for example?"
"A father?" Amber let out a derisive snort. "Not likely."
"Tell me about your father."
"My father was the one who had me committed."
Susan sat back and gazed placidly at Amber. "He betrayed you."
"My other choice was prison, seven to ten. The charge was kidnap-ping." Amber paused, taking a moment to assess the shock value of her words. The Reverend Doctor showed no sign of revulsion or outrage. "I tried to steal . . . my baby sister."
"To protect her from your father's betrayal?"
Amber braced herself against the rush of emotion that churned in her gut. "I believed in him. I thought he loved me. But he couldn't be trusted. He wasn't the man he seemed to be. He sent me away, and I never saw her again. I couldn't save her."
"So that's why you had the strong reaction when I said Meg loved you like a sister."
"A lot of things are causing strong reactions in me these days," Amber admitted.
"Like what?"
Amber swallowed down her apprehension and began to give Susan Quentin a thumbnail sketch of her life: her five years in Raleigh, the discovery of her artistic talents, the new life she had begun when she moved to Kitsap County, the disastrous relationship with Rick Knutson, and how she had begun to spiral into depression after he deserted her, and then this, the final straw—destroying her sculpture, the one she called the Two Sisters. "When I left Raleigh and came out here, I thought I had this licked," she finished. "The first few years, I did just fine. Then the dark place started to open up again. And when I cut up the sculpture I had worked so hard on, I realized I hadn't succeeded in getting well at all. I felt so much . . . I don't know. Pain. Rage. I couldn't seem to control it."
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