The Circle of Blood

by Ferguson, Alane

  Throughout dinner she deflected him with small talk about the winter fair and bits of gossip from town. Try as he might, he couldn’t penetrate her armor. When he finally dropped her off in front of her house, he said, “Baby Doe’s brain will be hard by Monday. You and I can go together.”

  “I think I’m going to skip it,” Cameryn told him. “I’ve got school.”

  “I can take you after, when school lets out. I think this is really important.” He reached out and put his hand on her arm. She felt that small jolt of electricity connecting them, thin as a wire.

  “Okay. We’ll go together.”

  “Cammie,” he said in a thickened voice. “I don’t know what happened back there at Francisco’s—I was just trying to help. There was more I wanted to say, but—”

  “I know. And you did help. Thanks for the dinner. I really needed a break.” She reached for the door handle, avoiding his eyes. “See ya,” she said, hurriedly getting out of his car.

  Her father was already home. She could see his head through the front window, bobbing gently in sleep as he sat in his favorite reading chair. When she opened the kitchen door she heard Justin’s engine gun in reverse.

  “You’re finally back,” her mammaw called from her bedroom. “Would you like to come in for a chat, girl?”

  “Tomorrow,” Cameryn called back. “I need to go to bed. I’m wiped.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Yeah. G’night.”

  Cameryn climbed the stairs to her bedroom, which was still adorned with pink wallpaper she longed to get rid of. Stuffed animals lay scattered on her bed, and she picked up her favorite, a floppy-eared dog named Rags. The brown eyes stared back, blank bits of glass set above a plastic nose. But Rags was fake, like everything in Cameryn’s life. Fake, fake, fake! Fishing her BlackBerry from her purse, she punched her thumb into the keypad. Lyric—she needed to talk to Lyric.

  “Hey, sorry I missed your call. Leave a message—peace!” Too tired to leave a voice mail, Cameryn hung up. She went to her window and stared out at the stars that hung from the sky, bright now as Christmas lights. A sky that Benjamin Baker and Mariah couldn’t see.

  Downstairs she could hear her father’s old Simon and Garfunkel song that ended with the words, “an island never cries.”

  That was what she needed to be, an island, and yet the tears welled into her eyes. There were too many pressures, too many problems. Justin had reached out to her and she hadn’t let him. Fear about her mother choked her heart. She wanted to escape but there was no place to go—her problems were inside and therefore traveled with her.

  It was then she heard the tiny ping coming from her laptop computer. She’d left it on that morning, and the screensaver had gone to black. Plucking a tissue, she blew her nose, then sat down on her chair and flicked her mouse. An e-mail had just arrived.

  I’m in the office working late. I have just received an e-mail concerning the Kyle O’Neil case you were involved with. I have some questions. Please e-mail me at your earliest convenience. Jo Ann Whittaker.

  Cameryn stared at the blinking cursor. The black vertical line appeared and disappeared from the screen, like a tiny, beating heart. Her finger hovered an entire minute before she hit “Shut Down.” She watched her computer go through the motions until her screen returned to black. Jo Ann Whittaker could wait. They all could. The problems would still be there in the morning.

  Chapter Ten

  “GOOD, YOU’RE DRESSED. I made banoffee, so here’s a slice to go with your coffee—you need to eat fast, but mind, don’t gulp it down. Your father’s already gone to Ouray. Mass starts in thirty minutes, so there’s still time for you to eat.”

  Her grandmother bustled through the kitchen in a pair of black knit pants topped by a red sweater embroidered with a Christmas wreath. Mammaw’s close-cropped white hair had been tamed with a curling iron, and she’d put on lipstick, a bright cherry to match her sweater. Earrings shaped like snowmen dangled from her lobes, swaying as she set the Irish pie on a quilted place mat. As she dropped a fork beside the plate, she said, “Hurry now. Eat! ”

  Cameryn walked across the kitchen to slide into the chair. “Thanks, Mammaw. That’s my favorite.”

  “Pure cream and a dash of coffee. The Irish know how to cook,” Mammaw answered, looking pleased. “You need to eat, child. You’re as thin as a traithnin.”

  “What’s a traithnin?”

  “A blade of grass.”

  Although her grandmother had emigrated from Dublin sixty years earlier, her soul had remained rooted in the green hills of Ireland. Her dream was to take Cameryn there, to the stone cottage in Dunshaughlin where Mammaw had been born. An Irish lilt still buoyed her words, brightening the syllables, and yet it was the only thing soft about her. A thick-bodied woman accustomed to hard work, and a fierce Catholic as well, Mammaw could fire up like no one else. Which would make what Cameryn was about to say that much harder.

  Taking a sip of coffee, Cameryn said, “I, um . . . I think I’m going to skip church this morning.”

  “And why would you be doing that?” Two tight lines appeared at the corners of her grandmother’s mouth. With her mug in hand, she sat down on a chair opposite. “Are you feeling sick?”

  “No.”

  “That’s the only reason you can miss Mass without it being a sin.”

  Bracing herself, she said, “I need to see Hannah.”

  Mammaw raised her chin. Her eyes, pale as Mariah’s, flashed. “And why would that be? You were with that woman yesterday, and now you’re wanting to play hooky with her today as well? I need time with you, too, Cammie. And so does God.”

  Cameryn couldn’t possibly tell her grandmother all the reasons, so she kept quiet, slowly eating her banoffee so she wouldn’t have to speak. The kitchen, a small room brimming with Christmas decorations, smelled like coffee and winterberry, the latter from the candles her grandmother loved to light. Cameryn could hear herself chew as the clock on the wall marked time, every sound amplified in the silence. The swallow, the slurp of coffee, the clink of her fork on her plate—Cameryn ate and drank, all the while avoiding her grandmother’s eyes. Finally, she did look up. But the condemnation she’d been expecting wasn’t there.

  "Mammaw? ”

  “I’ve raised you since you were small,” her mammaw murmured in a distant voice. “All that time I’ve fought against that woman and . . . we, me and Patrick, we’ve been doing our best. It may not have been good enough, but it has been our best. Cammie, we’re scared for you.”

  “Don’t be. I know all about Hannah. She explained the accident with Jayne and I told her I understood. We should forgive—that’s what Father John would tell you to do.”

  The lines around Mammaw’s mouth seemed even deeper this morning. "Typical. Hannah gave you a cleaned-up version of reality. Smoke and mirrors is what that woman does best.”

  “But, Mammaw—”

  “Listen to me, girl.” She took Cameryn’s hands in hers. Sunshine poured through the window, the light shadowing the blue veins that snaked across the back of her grandmother’s strong hands. “You know about your mother’s illness?”

  Cameryn nodded.

  “Then you understand the woman has always been . . . weak.”

  Was Mammaw reading her mind? Earlier that morning, when she’d slipped out of bed to look out her window, Cameryn had noticed the way the night wind had smoothed the top layer of snow into a delicate, shimmering crust. From experience she knew that crust would crumble beneath the smallest bit of pressure. As she’d pulled her blanket up under her chin she’d sat, staring out that window, thinking of Justin, her father, her mammaw, Lyric. They all had one thing in common: they were strong. Each of their souls was tenacious enough to stand without help. But Hannah seemed different, needier than anyone Cameryn had ever known. Like that crust of snow—beautiful, yet delicate. It was impossible to walk away from that fragility.

  Again Cameryn felt the grip of her grandmother’s h
ands tighten against hers. “You have to understand, we knew Hannah was ill back then, back before Jayne died. We knew she needed help. Your father took her to a doctor. Medicines were prescribed. But without telling us, your mother stopped taking her pills. Instead, she began smoking marijuana as a sort of self-medication. She thought it was a ‘natural’ remedy. She refused to listen to reason.”

  “What?” Cameryn asked, incredulous. “But Hannah hates drugs. She told me so. The first week she was here she said to stay away from drugs because they were poison. ”

  Nodding tersely, Mammaw said, “Nevertheless. The truth is, your mother got high every day, trying to treat herself instead of listening to the ones who knew best.”

  The bite of pie turned sour in Cameryn’s mouth. Pulling her hand away, she protested, “But Hannah’s not smoking pot—”

  “I’m talking about then, not now,” her grandmother interrupted. “Please, just listen to the story, girl. You may think your father and I have been too harsh with her, but there is a reason. At the time, your mother’s moods got worse and worse, and yet she refused all reason. I suspected—oh, I suspected—but Hannah lied and lied and lied to my face. She lied to both of us.” She sighed. “In the end, your father believed her, but I knew better. Patrick loved Hannah, right up until that day . . .”

  Mammaw faltered. Shutting her eyes, she waited a moment, swallowing so hard Cameryn could see the faint undulation in her neck. “On the day your sister . . . died . . . your father found Hannah alone inside the house. She was smoking a joint, while you and little Jayne were all by yourselves outside.

  “Patrick just lost it. He called her a bad mother. Hannah didn’t want to hear it. She jumped in her car and raced out of the driveway so fast she didn’t see . . .” Once again her grandmother reached out for Cameryn’s hand, cradled it between the two of hers. “Do you understand now? Your father—I—we could never forgive Hannah for what she did. The wastefulness of an angel lost. All because of stubbornness and stupidity.”

  “Mammaw, I know it was wrong,” Cameryn pleaded, “but—it was still an accident.”

  Mammaw fired up once again. “Is it an accident when someone’s deliberate actions cause a tragedy? No, no, no—back then, even Hannah realized the truth. The guilt made her try to end her own life, another sin before God to add to the first. And still your father wanted her back, until . . .”

  “Until what?”

  There was a beat. Slowly, her grandmother shook her head. “No, that part of the story is for your father to share.”

  Cameryn felt every muscle tense. “Why are you telling me this?” she whispered.

  The frown lines deepened. “Because a long time ago, your father lost himself to that woman. I don’t want to see the same thing happen to you.” Reaching up, she stroked Cameryn’s cheek. “I’m just telling you to be careful. You’ve got a big heart. You need to guard it.”

  “And you’ve got a big heart,” Cameryn answered softly. “You need to use it.”

  Her grandmother’s eyes widened as she pulled away. The chair creaked as she stood, her snowman earrings trembling indignantly. A crispness had returned to her voice as she said, “When I began this conversation I didn’t expect to get your cheek, Cameryn.”

  “No, that’s not the way I meant it. Really, Mammaw. It’s just, everyone makes mistakes. Hannah was sorry, wasn’t she? We’re supposed to forgive, aren’t we? I mean, we’ve been going to church all my life and that’s what I learned from you. That’s all I was trying to say. Honest.”

  Cameryn could tell Mammaw was wavering. Finally, with a slight nod, she said, “So you’ve been listening to the sermons, after all. Well, I suppose you’ve given me something to pray about. Speaking of which, look at the time! Since I’m needing to say a rosary for the both of us, I’d better go.” She plucked her coat off the coat rack and shrugged it on. “Mind you don’t stay at the Wingate all day.”

  “I won’t. Thanks, Mammaw. For understanding,” Cameryn said, and meant it.

  “I’ll tell Father John you’ll be there next week, no excuses.” With that she grabbed her oversized purse and slung in onto her shoulder as she hurried out the kitchen. The door slammed, and Mammaw was gone.

  Hannah used marijuana as a kind of self-medication. . . . The guilt made her try to end her own life, another sin before God to add to the first. . . . A long time ago, your father lost himself. . . . I don’t want to see the same thing happen to you. The words ran through Cameryn’s mind as she let herself into the Wingate, using a brass key her mother had given her. She had thought of nothing else on the drive over. It was clear that her grandmother believed the revelation of Hannah’s past would drive some sort of wedge between Cameryn and her mother, and yet, just the opposite had occurred. Cameryn now realized that her mother had not been well. Trying to make herself better, Hannah had paid for her bad choices in the cruelest of ways: with the loss of her child. No wonder she’d attempted to take her own life. The story explained so much—her mammaw’s and her father’s animosity and Hannah’s ice-cold fear. But they had all miscalculated Cameryn’s loyalty. Cameryn would stick, no matter what. Some kids at school smoked pot, and she knew the signs, knew the smell, and she was positive Hannah was clean. Since there was no way to undo the past, they all needed to let it go. It was as dead as her sister.

  The hexagonal stairs rose up before her and she climbed them quickly. She wouldn’t get lost. It was the other way around. It was Hannah who might drift away, somewhere inside her own head. It was Cameryn’s job to make sure that didn’t happen. Knocking against the door with her knuckle, she could hear a choking sound and someone softly blowing her nose.

  “Mom, it’s me,” she said, and tapped again.

  “It’s open,” came floating through the door. Hinges squeaked as Cameryn pushed inside. It looked as though Hannah had been crying. She was half-sitting, half-lying on her bed beneath a comforter, her long hair falling around her like a dark waterfall, rippling and wild. The skin on her face was flushed with two red spots, one on each cheek, as if they’d been painted with watercolor. Instead of a nightgown she wore a T-shirt with long sleeves.

  Rubbing her eyes with her palms, Hannah tried to smile, raising herself into a sitting position. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come,” she said weakly, patting the mattress with her hand. Crumpled wads of Kleenex dotted the comforter like balls of snow. “But shouldn’t you be in church?”

  “I skipped it.”

  “Today is a bad day,” Hannah said, her voice quivering. “I’ve read about . . . what happened.” A fresh wave of tears streamed down her face. “I can’t believe it. That child put a bullet into her head. I hope . . . your running after her—didn’t put her over the edge!”

  Awkward, Cameryn reached out and patted her mother’s forearm. “It’s okay,” she told her. “If someone wants to kill themselves, they’ll pretty much do it. I don’t think my chasing her had any effect on her decision.” A newspaper was clutched in her mother’s hand; gently, Cameryn removed it and placed it on the nightstand.

  “Cammie, did you—did you see her?”

  “Yes, and I went to Durango last night. Dr. Moore did the autopsy.”

  “I thought the police would call me, but they never did. I waited and waited for the sheriff to come to my door. Then I knew you didn’t tell.” When she looked at Cameryn, her eyes filmed with tears.

  “I didn’t say anything about your wallet. You caught a break, because it wasn’t found on Mariah. She must have ditched it.”

  “I’m scared, Cammie.”

  Cameryn stood absolutely still. “Scared of what?”

  But her mother closed her eyes.

  “Scared of what? Hannah, open your eyes and look at me.”

  Like a child, her mother shook her head. “Please, don’t tell. I’m so glad you didn’t tell.” Then she did open her eyes, so wide Cameryn could see the white all around. “There’s a . . . stigma . . . attached to people like me. They never forget. Your
father is going to say I’m still crazy and they’ll start to talk and I don’t want them to talk. I can’t stand it when people talk about me.”

  Pricks of electricity burned beneath Cameryn’s skin. The boom-boom-boom of her heart beating against her ribs was physical. Then she saw it, a flash, like a fish scale beneath water. “Han—Mom—what do you have in your hand?” Her mother was worrying something between her fingers. Cameryn could see silver metal flash against the light.

  At first Hannah pushed her fist beneath the covers, but then gradually, she held out her hand. Slowly, twisting her fingers toward the ceiling, she opened her hand palm-up.

  “It’s a ring,” Cameryn breathed. “Is that yours?”

  No answer.

  “Mom, where did you get that ring? If it’s not yours, whose is it?”

  “Mariah left it in the cup holder of my car. She said she didn’t want it anymore.”

  Plucking it from her mother’s extended palm, Cameryn peered at the ring’s design. The words Keep Sweet had been carved into the silver, but not the way a jeweler would do it. The words were rough, etched with block letters.

  “Mariah left this in your car? When?”

  “After she climbed in. She dropped it in the cup holder and said, ‘I don’t need this anymore. I don’t want to keep sweet.’” Hannah pulled her legs up to her chest so that the quilt made a tent. Hugging her knees, she rested her forehead into the fabric; her face was hidden behind quilt and hair.

  “Mom, this is evidence.”

  She shrugged. “You can give it to the police. I don’t want it.”

  Cameryn felt a stab of fear. She began to pace, back and forth, trying to get her thoughts in a row. “How? How can I say I found it? We did a complete sweep of that alleyway. Pictures were taken. If I tell them the truth, the trail will lead straight back to you.”

  “What happens now?” Hannah asked, her voice trusting.

  Cameryn’s mind moved in fits and starts as she sifted through the data, for a moment not realizing that her own hand had drifted to her mouth, pressing her lips as if that could keep her thoughts sealed inside.