Frozen Footprints

by Therese Heckenkamp

  What could she possibly want? Had someone complained about my cookies?

  “I’m Helen,” she introduced herself with a smile, “and I’m on the Altar and Rosary Society here.”

  Maybe she wants me to join. Or maybe she’s soliciting donations.

  “Your name’s Charlene Perigard, isn’t it?”

  Suddenly damp with perspiration, I backed into a shaded corner formed by shrubs and the stone church wall. “That’s right,” I admitted as I struggled with an irrational, gripping fear. I’d enjoyed my anonymous attendance here at Saint Paul’s, and had hoped it could continue. But if this woman knew who I was, how many others knew? Now they would all stare at me funny and whisper about me.

  “Please,” Helen said, “don’t look so distressed. That’s exactly what we don’t want.”

  We?

  “I only wanted to tell you, on behalf of us all here at the parish, that our hearts go out to you and your brother, and if there’s anything—anything at all that you need, any type of help, please let us know.”

  They know. They all know. Oddly, I felt humiliated, as if I’d been caught sinning. “How long have people known?”

  “Oh, for quite some time, I would imagine.”

  Then why haven’t I noticed anyone staring or whispering?

  “But we don’t want to bother you,” she continued. “We only want to offer our support. You belong here with us, and we like to take care of our own. That’s why we’d truly appreciate it if you would accept this little card and gift from us all.”

  She held out a blue envelope, and I took it hesitantly. I was glad she had brought it out in private and that I hadn’t been called up to stand in front of the entire congregation or something.

  Inside the envelope I found a religious “Thinking of you” card, signed with so many signatures, my mouth dropped open.

  And then I saw the check.

  My gaze flew to Helen. “I can’t. I can’t accept this.”

  “Of course you can.” She beamed.

  “But I barely even know anyone here. It wouldn’t be right—”

  “Of course it would. It’s what God wants. Look, even Father Villateshire signed it and contributed. You don’t want to throw this all back in our faces, now do you?” She chuckled.

  Blinking, I shook my head and swallowed my pride. “But how could I ever thank everyone? I—”

  “By accepting it, my dear. That’s all we ask. Use it for anything you need. There are no strings attached . . . though we’d love to see you smile sometime.” She winked. “God bless you.” And she turned and strolled away before I could reply.

  As I walked home thoughtfully, I passed a “for rent” sign outside of a pretty apartment that I’d long admired (and had tried not to covet) on my previous walks home. Now I stopped and studied the check in my hands. It’s possible now.

  The rays of sun shining down on me felt extra warm. I turned my face to them, soaked them up, an antidote to the chill that had lingered in my bones and soul for too long. Gratitude filled me. Thank you, Jesus.

  And maybe now that I could move into a cheery place, the nightmares would stop.

  * * *

  I awoke in my bed.

  That was my first mistake.

  Opening my eyes was the second.

  If I had kept them closed, I wouldn’t have seen the dark hulking figure across the room. The shadowy hood kept me from seeing his face, but I knew who it was: Abner.

  He moved. Glided, really. Coming closer to the foot of my bed. I crossed myself, fumbling, using words and the sign of the cross as a holy shield. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son . . .”

  But Abner laughed and kept coming. When he reached the foot of my bed, a white apparition appeared beside him. It wasn’t any form of heavenly help. On the contrary, it was another fearsome figure: A half-rotting woman in a tattered wedding gown. Horrors, I could even smell her. The brittle bones of her fingers crackled as she stretched them toward me.

  My voice trembled. “. . . be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil . . .”

  Abner held a glowing, red-hot branding iron, moving it toward my face.

  Praying didn’t stop him.

  So I stopped praying.

  I jumped up and fled. I raced to my parents’ room, expecting them to save me, but their bed was vacant. In fact, it hadn’t even been slept in.

  That’s right, they aren’t alive anymore.

  How had I forgotten?

  Next, I raced to Max’s room, but he was snoring deeply and would not wake up no matter how hard I shook him. And still I heard the evil spirits coming for me, calling my name in ghastly tones.

  Cornered, I hoisted my scapular and Miraculous Medal and held it toward them. “Begone Satan!” I screamed.

  Then I awoke for real, but I was moaning in my bed, and the fear was not lessened by thinking it was only a dream. Because I was alone. In the dark. And I was convinced the nightmare was about to happen all over again.

  I switched on a light and clutched my sweating head. Despite my lovely new apartment, the nightmares were becoming more real than reality. Would this be Abner’s ultimate revenge, to haunt me the rest of my life, or till I went insane? Why would God allow such a thing?

  I never should have moved out on my own. If only Max had stayed with me.

  Max.

  I picked up my phone and dialed his number with shaky fingers before looking at the clock. As his phone rang, I realized it was one in the morning. But the last I knew, he was in California, so the time zone difference would mean it was only eleven for him. He’d be awake.

  “Hello?”

  “Max, it’s me.”

  “Char, hey.”

  I heard background noises, a thumping of music, people yelling. Probably a party.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “You okay?”

  I clenched and unclenched my sweaty bed sheet. “I’m fine. Just wondering how you’re doing.”

  “I’m great! The shows are going great. And listen to this—I was going to call you tomorrow to tell you—we just got the most awesome opportunity. We’ve been booked to open for David Copperfield in Las Vegas. Can you believe it? This is our big break! Man, I still think I’m dreaming. But it turns out a show featuring a magician who escaped from a maniacal killer is projected to be a big hit, go figure. We’ll see. Say a prayer.”

  He talked on for a minute or two. I barely heard him. All the while I was thinking, I’m not fine. I’m losing my mind. And you’re my twin; you’re supposed to read my mind. I swallowed a laugh. My paranoia, combined with insomnia, was not a good combination.

  “So . . .” he tapered off, “if there’s nothing else, I’m gonna get going.”

  I nodded, caught myself, and whispered, “All right.” I hesitated. “You’ll be home in two weeks, right? For the trial?”

  “Two weeks?” There was a pause.

  “Max?” I prodded uneasily. “When does that Las Vegas show open?”

  “The sixteenth.”

  My heart squeezed. “But that’s the start of jury selection.”

  “Man, Char, I’m sorry. If there was any way around this, I’d be there—but I can’t blow this chance. And Wayne’s counting on me—”

  “I was counting on you. And I can’t believe you’re taking our horrible experience and—and—cashing in on it!”

  “And why not? Why shouldn’t we get something good out of it? Should we just hide for the rest of our lives? I’ve got a chance to do something positive, and I’m taking it. God gave me talent, and I’m using it. And if I make a lot of money in the process, I’ll put it to good use—and you’ll be first on my list.”

  * * *

  So it was that two weeks later, Max was not by my side as I approached the courthouse. That was okay with the prosecution, they didn’t need him on the stand yet, but it wasn’t okay with me. I’d counted on having Max’s moral support. Yet as much as I dreaded this, nothing could keep me away.<
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  I passed through the metal detector and found the courtroom. Early as it was, the room was already filling. The way the media was covering this case, you’d think it was the entertainment of the year. I expected most of the people had come merely for sensational thrills.

  Whispered voices and not-so-hushed voices buzzed as I entered. Some people noticed me, and some hissed, “That’s her, Charlene, one of the Perigard twins who was kidnapped!” I averted my eyes and walked stiffly up front to my reserved seat.

  Grandfather sat across the way, flanked by spiffy lawyers, and though I carefully kept my eyes away from him, I could feel his heavy glare. Not knowing quite where to look, I alternated keeping my eyes on my clenched hands and on the clock. Time crawled.

  I hadn’t watched enough courtroom dramas to know how court proceedings went, but I had a gut feeling that Clay would be brought in sometime soon. My heart started beating faster and faster in dreaded anticipation.

  My eyes lifted to the door at just the right moment to see him being led in by a policeman. His face had healed well, but his nose seemed slightly crooked, as if it had been broken and healed wrong. His hair was much shorter. His skin, paler. He wore a simple, ill-fitting black suit, and had lost weight.

  But these were all the superficial things. The things I really wanted to know—how he was doing, how he was feeling, how he was being treated—I had no way of knowing. Until he looked at me. His expression was smooth and composed, but his eyes revealed something. They weren’t angry, afraid, or haunted, but they did look older, weary and weathered. And yet at the same time, there was something in them—something of strength, like you’d expect to find in the eyes of a soldier. He didn’t acknowledge me—gave no nod or smile—but then I didn’t expect that, and I did nothing to acknowledge him, either.

  And yet.

  And yet, there had been a connection. A pulsing in my veins, an understanding of, “here we are, at last. Not where we want to be, but where we have to be.” We. We’re in this together. I rubbed the white, raised scar on my left ring finger, recalling how our blood had been mingled, and I shivered.

  Everyone rose when the Honorable Judge Whitman entered, and my heart sank. He was a hawk-eyed man with a narrow face. He also looked like he had a constant bad taste in his mouth.

  We were informed that Clayton Morrow, twenty-one, faced multiple charges of kidnapping, abduction, torture, assault, battery, and conspiracy to murder. I swallowed.

  The business of the day was jury selection, and as the candidates were presented and questioned, I assessed them myself. A steely-eyed construction worker. Please, no. Young, gentle-looking ballet teacher. Yes. Twenty-two-year-old computer science student. Possibly. And on and on till my head spun.

  By the end of the day, I left the room wearily. And the real action hasn’t even begun.

  A mob of reporters surged toward me as I exited the glass doors.

  “Is it true that you were forced to eat dead mice while in captivity?”

  Microphones were shoved at my face.

  “Did your grandfather really disinherit you and kick you out of your home?”

  “What do you think the verdict will be? What do you want it to be?”

  “Miss Perigard, are you in love with Clayton Morrow?”

  I almost tripped on the cement steps.

  God, get me out of here.

  I was actually relieved to enter my apartment. I took a long, roundabout way there, just in case any kooks or hounding reporters tried to follow me. I double-bolted my door and went straight for the refrigerator. My stomach told me I was starving, but it was so twisted in knots, it only let me eat a few bites of my microwave dinner before I felt like gagging.

  While I washed my fork and glass, a knock sounded on my door. Hoping Max was finally arriving, I dried my hands hastily. Forgetting to check the peephole, I cracked open the door, leaving the chain on.

  “Yes?” I peered at a harmless looking old lady wearing a soft blue scarf over her head. Her hands held a white plate on which perched a Bundt cake under a clear plastic dome.

  A new neighbor introducing herself, I surmised tiredly.

  “Hello, my name’s Margaret,” she said brightly. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  I noticed that the cake looked green.

  “Oh, don’t worry, the cake’s not moldy,” she assured me, apparently reading my suspicious gaze. “It’s a pistachio cream cake, my specialty. Very delicious, but I can’t help the color. Would you like to try a piece?”

  My eyebrows raised. You’ve got to be kidding. Food from a stranger? I’m really not looking to be poisoned.

  “I hope you’re not allergic to nuts,” she added, almost shyly.

  As I studied her guileless face, the wrinkled skin smoothed, the scarf was replaced with lustrous chestnut hair, and the features became somewhat familiar, as if I’d known her in her younger days . . . or seen a picture.

  I glanced again at the cake, and it came to me. Clay had told me pistachio cake was his mother’s specialty. And now I remembered the picture that he’d shown me from his wallet.

  “You’re Clay’s mom.”

  “Goodness, you figured that out fast! I was still wondering how to break it to you.” She took a deep breath, as if speaking tired her. “I have so wanted to talk with you, but didn’t know if you’d be willing . . .” Her words trailed off with a hopeful, unspoken question.

  I didn’t even take the time to wonder if talking with her was legal or not, considering the trial. The cake looked like a burden, a dead-weight in her thin arms, and I recalled her frail condition. I unlocked the door and let her enter, thinking, How is she so composed?

  After securing the door, I relieved her of the cake and showed her to a seat, where she sank down gratefully, like a wilting flower. Scanning the room, I was glad I had my many religious goods prominently displayed—my holy water fonts, Bible, pictures, crucifix, and statues. She’ll appreciate them.

  I set the cake on the table, where we promptly forgot it.

  “Did Clay send you?” I asked, still standing.

  “Goodness, no! He wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was here.”

  “Why not?” I tried not to sound offended as I dropped into a wooden chair.

  “You know,” she waved a feeble hand, “busy-body mother interfering, and all that. Besides, he thinks he’s caused you enough trouble.”

  So why are you here? To plead for mercy for Clay? Since I was already on his side, I didn’t need anyone trying to sway me. And another thing: “How did you know where I live?”

  “Forgive me.” She bobbed her head slightly. “I didn’t know until today. I followed you home from the courthouse.”

  So . . . I hadn’t done a very good job of jumbling my tracks after all, not if a sick old lady could trail me home. Although, I realized now as I sat across from her, she wasn’t really that old—not more than fifty-five—but something about her gave her the appearance of having lived many years. Many hard years.

  “You walked?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Gracious, no! These legs aren’t what they used to be. I took a cab. I’m sorry, may I have a glass of water?”

  “Of course.” I rose and got one hastily, ashamed I hadn’t offered.

  She took a long, slow drink, as if very parched. “I’m not here to plead Clay’s case, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said perceptively. “No.” She folded her pale hands. “I came because I want to tell you how very sorry I am for all that you’ve suffered.” A deep trembling pain came into her voice, but she gained control and continued steadily. “I wanted to apologize personally for my sons’ behavior, both of them,” she clarified, “and ask your forgiveness.”

  I struggled to keep from swallowing my tongue. Forgiveness for Clay, I could extend. But for Abner? No. Fortunately, she didn’t press me. In fact, I began to sense that she was actually referring to forgiveness for herself. “You’re not to blame,” I attempted.

  Her
eyes looked past me and she spoke wistfully, in a very soft voice. “Sometimes, I wonder. Sometimes, I doubt. I think, if I had raised them better . . .”

  Her face was wan, her eyes distant. “I lost them long ago. I grieved for them then. But I haven’t given up hope. If you don’t have hope, you have nothing.” Her words became resigned. “In the meantime, I pray for them.”

  I thought of Saint Monica, how she had prayed all those years for her wayward son, who became Saint Augustine. I felt like I should say something, but Margaret leaned toward me.

  “And then I saw you, and I thought, you’ve suffered so much, especially for someone so young. You looked so alone and afraid, and I wanted to comfort you. Offer you hope.”

  Shifting uncomfortably, I asked, “How’s Clay holding up?”

  She nodded once. “He’s doing well, all things considered.” I thought I caught a glimpse of a haunting shadow in her eyes. “In fact, he’s changed from the Clay I knew last year, before all of this . . . but it’s a good change. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  I compressed my lips. He works in painful ways.

  The look in her warm brown eyes made me feel as if she’d heard my disrespectful thought. Her gaze traveled the living room. “You display many Catholic things.”

  “Yes.” I felt a strange urge to defend myself. “Shouldn’t I?”

  “That depends. There are those who do it for show, the ‘holier-than-thou’ types—definitely not you, my dear,” she added—“and there are those who do it out of pious love. But most of us fall in-between. We do it out of habit, or because we think we should.” She took a breath and a drink. “Others gather sacramentals like a lifeline, because they are lost or struggling, and it’s something material that they can hold on to. They think it will help bring them closer to God, or protect them from evil.”

  “That’s me,” I blurted, “and it’s not working. I have nightmares, horrible, evil nightmares.” I’m plagued by the ghost of your son. “And I thought . . . maybe these things would keep them away.”