by Deanna Chase
Oh, joy.
I pulled the first Bible, fighting a sneeze as I reminded myself why I’d never started a family Bible for my own family—they get old and rotten and decrepit, and then what do you do? If you’re the Oliveras family, apparently you donate it to the Church so a slob like me can wade through the pages later. And why not? It’s not like you can dump it in the trash can. There’s no Thou Shalt Not, but it still seems to me that tossing a Bible would score you some serious demerits on your Permanent Record.
I managed to decipher the handwriting on the family-tree portions (nothing interesting), then paged slowly through the book (no handwritten phrases or underlined verses). I paid particular attention to John 11:17, the chapter and verse about Lazarus, but there didn’t appear to be any notes in the margin, any tipped-in sheets of paper, any messages scrawled with invisible ink. I even inspected every centimeter of the leather binding, searching for treasure maps hidden in the spine. Nothing. As far as I could tell, this was a family Bible and nothing more.
When I put the Bible aside, it was almost four o’clock. The cathedral was closing, and I needed to get Timmy. Of course, as soon as I stepped into the real world, all my real world problems lined up behind me. While I’d been in the basement, Eddie and Stuart had been forgotten. Now, though, they were front and center again.
Stuart, I assumed, had a reason for going to the cathedral, and had I not done my impression of the world’s most pious Catholic, perhaps he would have noticed me and explained. Since it was stupid to speculate, I forced myself off the subject. Surely he’d tell me tonight. And if he didn’t…well, then I’d just have to ask.
Eddie was a harder subject. And as I turned into the parking lot at Timmy’s school, I still didn’t know what to do about him. More. I didn’t know why I’d suddenly become obsessed with the idea of doing anything at all.
At the moment though, Eddie was the least of my problems. Just beyond those doors was a two-year-old who (I hoped) hadn’t been scarred for life by his first experience in non-parental child care.
I parked the car and got out, realizing only then how much my stomach was churning. I’d kept my cell phone on all day with no frantic calls from Nadine or Miss Sally. So I knew (hoped) that no horrible accident had befallen my child.
But it wasn’t horrible accidents I was worried about. I was terrified of the expression I’d see in his eyes when I picked him up. An expression that said “Where have you been, Mommy, and why did you leave me with strangers?” As a Demon Hunter, I had a great answer to that. As a mom, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“He did great,” Nadine said as I passed the reception desk on my way to the Explorers classroom. I almost stopped and cross-examined her (What is “great”? Are you just saying that to make me feel better? Will my son ever forgive me for dumping him off on you people?), but I fought the urge and soldiered on.
One nice thing KidSpace does is put windows in the doors to all the classrooms. From a mommy perspective, this is a good thing, and I took the opportunity to peer in at my little munchkin. There he was, my little man, playing on the floor with a plastic dump truck, right alongside another little boy, this one pushing a dinosaur in a wheelbarrow.
He was smiling. He was happy. And from my perspective, this was a minor miracle. I’d made a good decision. My sweet little boy wasn’t traumatized. He didn’t need therapy. He wouldn’t run to Oprah in twenty years and rat me out. If anything, he seemed to be having a great time.
Life was good.
I opened the door, held out my arms to him…then watched with desperation as Timmy burst into tears.
“Mommamommamomma!” The truck was forgotten as he raced to me. I caught him on the fly and scooped him up, hugging him and patting his back. So much for my rampant lauding of my parental decisions; this was one stressed-out little boy.
“He really did fine today,” Miss Sally said as I rubbed circles between his shoulders and murmured nice-sounding words. “This is very normal.”
I believed her (well, I sort of believed her), but that didn’t lessen the guilt. I shifted Timmy so that I could see his face. “Hey, little man. You ready to go home?”
He nodded, thumb now permanently entrenched in his mouth.
“Did you have fun today?”
Another reluctant nod, but at least it eased my guilt.
“Before you go, though, I need you to sign this form.” Miss Sally pushed a clipboard toward me. I shifted Timmy’s weight on my hip and squinted at the preprinted page. “Accident Report.”
“What happened? Is he hurt?” I looked down at Timmy. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Mommy,” he said. “No biting Cody. No. Biting.”
My cheeks warmed. “He bit someone?”
“Just a little bite,” Miss Sally assured me. “The tooth impression has already faded, and he and Cody have been playing together all afternoon.”
“He bit hard enough to leave a mark?” I could hear my voice rise, but I was having trouble getting my head around this. My son was a biter? My little boy was a problem child? “But Nadine said he did great.”
“Oh, he did. Truly. This isn’t that unusual for new students. And it won’t be a problem unless it happens again. Or unless Cody’s parents complain.” She held up a hand. “But they won’t. Cody was a biter, too.”
There it was. That label. Biter. I had a biter.
After a few more minutes of guilt on my part and reassurance on Sally’s part, I started to believe that the day really hadn’t been a total disaster. In addition to taking a taste of his schoolmate, Timmy had made friends, sang songs, and spent a full hour playing with finger paints. What more could a toddler want?
In the end we trotted down the hall hand-in-hand, and as we reached the door, he lifted his little face, and those big brown eyes sucked me in. “I love you, Mommy,” he said, and I melted on the spot. He might be a biter, but he was my baby. “Home, Mommy? We go home?”
“Soon, sport,” I said. “We have one more quick errand.” I hadn’t even realized I’d made up my mind until I said those words, but something about seeing Timmy in the care of others had fueled my decision. I couldn’t leave Eddie all alone. In his condition he might accidentally blow the lid off Forza, and that was something I simply couldn’t let happen.
Plus, I feared that Eddie was right—there were demons walking the halls of Coastal Mists. And any one of those dark creatures would be more than interested to know all the delicious little Forza facts that were locked in Eddie’s head. Facts that might get Eddie—or me or my family killed. Besides, Hunters protected other Hunters. I’d always lived by that code, and even now, retired, I couldn’t back away from it.
So Timmy and I were going back to get the man. What I’d do with him once I had him…well, that was anybody’s guess.
Chapter 15
“He’s who?” Stuart’s voice, though whispered, seemed to fill the kitchen. I made a frantic pressing motion, as if I were snuffing flames, hoping Eddie hadn’t heard.
No such luck.
“I’m your grandfather, sonny,” Eddie called from the living room. (At least we knew his hearing worked well.) “Mind your manners there, boy.”
As Stuart’s eyes widened, I closed my own, counted to ten, then opened them again with the secret wish that everything would be calm and wonderful, all my problems would be solved, and my family (real and fake) would be living in peaceful harmony.
No go.
“Kate …” Stuart’s voice was calm, but no-nonsense. I sighed, resigned to telling him some version of the truth.
“He was in a nursing home,” I said. (Truth.) “And they were keeping him all drugged up.” (Also truth.) “Plus, I think he has Alzheimer’s.” (Sorta truth. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with Eddie. All I knew from my brief time with him was that truth and fiction were mixed up in his head, and either one might come spewing out without any warning at all.)
“I sympathize,” Stuart said. “But why is he now in our
living room? Both my grandfathers have been dead for years. And the man dropping potato chip crumbs onto our living room carpet is very much not dead. Yet.”
“Right,” I said. “He’s not. Dead, I mean.”
(Pregnant pause.)
“Kate …”
Another sigh from me. I really should have planned this one better. When I’d returned to Coastal Mists, Eddie had been due for another dose of meds. He’d been coherent (more or less) and when I’d explained that I was taking him home with me, I’d expected a bit of a paperwork nightmare. Instead, the whole process had been smooth as silk, as if I were immune to the red tape that normally tied itself around hospitals and the like.
I helped him pack (though since I had Tim with me, the bulk of my help consisted of rescuing his belongings from the fingers of my toddler). Then we started schlepping toward the front desk.
Melinda stopped us on the way out. “Mr. Lohmann,” she’d gushed. “You’re leaving us?”
He squinted at her, then pointed a wizened finger at me. “She’s training the little one to hunt demons,” he’d said. “I’m helping.”
To which I’d naturally rolled my eyes and—because I’m an idiot—said, “He’s coming to live with us.”
“Your son must be very excited,” Melinda said to Eddie.
“My who?”
Melinda looked at me, clearly confused, which made sense considering I’d earlier given her the long song and dance about how he was related to my husband. In retrospect, I probably should have just let it pass, but since Stuart does have a father, and since he is very much alive and coherent, and since I had no idea if Desmond Connor was a close personal friend of the director of Coastal Mists, I announced that Eddie was my first husband’s grandfather. No relation to Stuart whatsoever. “Of course I have to take him home with me “ I said. “My daughter needs to know her great-grandpa, and I won’t be able to sleep knowing I didn’t do everything in my power to take care of Eric’s grandfather.”
Melinda oohed and aahed about how sweet I was, and while I hung my head and tried to look modest and unmartyrlike, Eddie crouched down to Timmy’s level. “You can call me Gramps,” he said. At which point Tim reached out and yanked Eddie’s eyebrow.
“Caterpillar,” he said. “Fuzzy caterpillar.”
Not being entirely stupid, I figured that was our cue to leave, and we gathered Eddie’s things, signed the necessary papers, and headed out the door.
To my relief, Nurse Ratched was nowhere to be seen. I had mental images of her chasing after us, not letting us leave, and hordes of demons descending on us, intent on slaughtering us first, then burying us in the basement. I told myself I was being paranoid, but I knew I really wasn’t. I had no doubt that my geriatric demon had been a Coastal Mists resident, and I fully intended to let Larson in on the problem, so he could relay it up the Forza chain of command. It wasn’t my problem, though. My problem was about five-eight, a hundred seventy pounds, with a stubbly gray beard and eyebrows that vaguely resembled caterpillars.
I got both my problems safely into the car. (For those of you keeping track, Eddie was problem number one. Timmy, as a toddler, automatically qualifies as a problem in any situation that involves moving from point A to point B.)
I’d come up with the Eddie-as-grandfather story solely to ease our departure from Coastal Mists, and, frankly, it hadn’t occurred to me that Eddie would adopt the story as his own, much less believe it. For that matter, I didn’t know if he really did believe it. All I knew was that as soon as I got him to the house, he made himself at home (witness the potato chips), tucked Timmy on his lap (who immediately continued his rapt inspection of the eyebrow insects), and told Allie that she looked just like her mother, and was I training her well?
To Allie’s credit she registered less shock at encountering the old man in the living room than I would have expected, and I deflected his questions by sending her upstairs to do homework before dinner. Eddie and I needed to have a talk, that much was for sure.
Unfortunately, Stuart got home before we could have the talk. (In case you’re wondering, springing elderly inlaws on unsuspecting spouses—particularly where you’re proposing a live-in arrangement of some unknown duration—is not the key to a laid-back evening.)
As usual, Stuart entered through the kitchen, his tie askew and his briefcase weighing heavy in his hand. I could see in his face that all he wanted to do was drop his stuff in his study and change into jeans and a T-shirt. Too bad for him, I wasn’t about to let him pass.
I cornered him near the refrigerator. He shot me a “later, honey” look and pushed past. I counted to five. Sure enough, as soon as he rounded the corner and saw Eddie on the couch with Tim, my husband backtracked. “Okay,” he said. “Who is he?”
And that of course, was when I started to regale him with the long-lost-grandfather-in-law story. Never once did I expect Eddie to announce that he was Stuart’s grandfather, or for me to gently correct him with, “No, Gramps, Eric’s your grandson, remember? Stuart’s my second husband.”
All of which would have been fine (well, relatively speaking) if Allie hadn’t overheard the whole thing. “Daddy’s grandpa?” Her tentative whisper sounded from behind me, and I drew in a breath. As I turned around, she moved toward him, then took his gnarled hand in her own. “You’re my daddy’s grandfather?”
Tears filled my eyes, and as I looked up at Stuart, I saw my own pain reflected there. His parents had been nothing but sweet to Allie, and I know she loved them dearly, but this was blood. A bond with the past that she’d never known existed (in part, of course, because it didn’t exist).
I had to tell her the truth, though. Eric and I had both been orphans. We didn’t know who our parents were, much less our grandparents. But as I started to take a step toward her, I hesitated. Allie’s eyes were bright, her cheeks pink, and when Eddie (who must have been quite the charmer in his day) told her she had her father’s eyes, I swear, she melted a little.
This was a lie, yes. But was it really so bad? Allie craved a heritage, after all, and that wasn’t something I ever thought I could give her. Somehow, though, I’d managed. I’d brought home a family history. So what if it was an illusion?
Besides, how did I know that Eddie wasn’t really Eric’s grandfather? Stranger things had happened. I know. They happened to me all the time.
***
With Allie and Eddie ensconced in the living room, Stuart decided it was time to recommence his interrogation of me. “Once again,” he said, “how long is Gramps going to be our houseguest? And why can’t he stay at a hotel?”
“Long story,” I said, then added a shhhh. “Do you want Allie to hear?” This is what’s known as a diversionary tactic.
“Don’t change the subject on me,” he said. As a lawyer, Stuart’s pretty adept at picking up on the nuances of diversion. Too bad for me.
I made a show of sighing. “I tried to call you,” I said. “Just after lunchtime. Your secretary said you’d stepped out.” This was where I expected him to take the opening and explain to me why he’d gone to the cathedral.
“Did you try my cell phone?”
“Urn, no,” I said. That wasn’t the comment I’d expected, although his answer did remind me that I had a nicely wrapped phone in the trunk with Allie’s name on it. First things first, though, and I came up with a reasonable-sounding fib. “My phone was dead.” I knew Stuart would understand. I didn’t bother to memorize numbers—I just kept them programmed in my phone. If mine had no juice, there was no way I could call Stuart or anyone else. I figure I’m doing good on any given day to keep track of all my kids’ various appointments. Adding the memorization of phone numbers would be cruel and unusual.
“Late lunch,” he said. “I met with some members of the zoning commission about a project, and some of them seemed amenable to talking politics—”
“And so you did,” I said. I lifted myself up on my toes and kissed his cheek. “Darling Stuart. Always campaigni
ng.” My voice might be cheery, but my insides were churning. Not only had my husband not volunteered his business at the church, he’d flat out lied to me about where he’d been.
I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew that I sure as hell didn’t like it.
***
I spent the next two hours feeding my expanded-by-one family and pondering my own hypocrisy. By the time the meat loaf was gone and the string beans devoured (or, in Timmy’s case, mushed into tiny pieces and methodically dropped on the floor), I’d decided that while I had a Get Out of Jail Free card for my lying, my husband did not.
This conclusion, of course, only made me more frustrated.
Stuart wasn’t volunteering any information, and my very subtle hints to extract some (“Why don’t you join us for Mass on Sunday, sweetie? You really should go to the cathedral every week”) had failed miserably. I should have just asked him outright, but something in the pit of my stomach told me I wouldn’t like the answer.
Eddie ate nothing but mashed potatoes, while Allie snarfed down her food and then spent the rest of the meal staring at her newly acquired relative. At one point Eddie leaned over and pinched her upper arm. As Allie squealed, Eddie grunted with satisfaction. “This one can whack a demon. Mark my words. She’s a spitfire.” He smacked his lips, his eyes focused somewhere over my shoulder. “I knew a spitfire once. Reminds me of our Allie. Long brown hair. Lethal hands. And legs that could drive a man to—”
“Eddie.”
He snorted, but shut up. Allie, of course, looked both pleased and curious.
Great.
“Demons?” Stuart said. “What are you talking about?”
“Eddie used to be a cop,” I said, lying now coming almost naturally. “He and his friends called the bad guys demons.”
“Demons are the bad guys,” Eddie said. “And believe you me, I’ve known some bad ones in my time, that’s for sure.”
I opened my mouth to get a word in, but Eddie rambled on.
“Vile things. And the stench? Hoo-boy …” He made a waving motion as if to dispel the odor.