After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  He swallowed and tried to find his voice, sensing he’d made some huge mistake, but he could clear it up, if only—

  “You sneaky little bastard.” Mr. Callaghan’s breath hit his face.

  Lance’s heart pounded as the man shook him, rattling his thoughts. What had he done to make him so angry?

  Then it hit him, as sure as he knew the man was about to.

  Beth. He’d laid down . . . fallen asleep beside her . . . How had he thought that was a good idea? His face flushed hot.

  “Daddy, no!”

  There she was, tugging at her father’s shoulder, eyes saucer-wide, face pink, voice desperate. “You don’t understand. Nothing happened. He didn’t mean—”

  “Get back in your room, young lady,” Mr. Callaghan thundered. At that moment, Mrs. Callaghan appeared and corralled Beth, still pleading, into her bedroom and closed the door.

  Leaving him to Mr. Callaghan.

  Lance knew he should say something, but his tongue was knotted. Before he could manage a word, Mr. Callaghan seized the back of his neck, the savage grip practically tearing his skin as he forced him down the stairs and into the garage, into his truck. He almost slammed the door on his foot.

  Breathing hard, Mr. Callaghan cranked the engine and pulled out. “How dare you, boy.” His hand hit the steering wheel. “I opened my home to you. Gave you countless chances because I thought there was something worthwhile in you.” The vehicle careened around a corner, throwing Lance against the door. “I was wrong. You only ever wanted to take advantage. I can forgive most anything, but not that.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t even try to defend yourself. I know what I saw. You’re out of here.”

  Words died in his throat. His shoulders sagged. It was useless. The back of his neck stung where Mr. Callaghan had gripped him.

  At last, he was being kicked out. Why had he let himself think that maybe this time, it might not come to this? It always did.

  Early morning sun flashed through the window, bright daggers of light. He thought of the big house full of laughter that had begun to feel like a home. Maybe, if he finally said the words that seemed to come so easily for others . . . he licked his lips. Licked them again. “I’m sorry.”

  “Bull.”

  Lance shut his eyes and thought of Beth. His fingers gripped the seat. He wouldn’t ever see her again. Giving it one last shot, he heard his voice come out pitiful, weak. “Please.”

  There was no answer. He jolted forward as the truck ground to a halt. He opened his eyes and saw the familiar gray building. Social services. Bands of steel squeezed his chest.

  He almost begged for mercy, but clamped down on his tongue as Mr. Callaghan pulled him out roughly, making up for all those times he’d treated him so well.

  Inside, the man pushed him onto a hard seat and ordered him to stay, like a dog.

  And he did, slumping low, in a kind of shock which crept over him, covering him in a hard shell, glazing him with numbness. He didn’t hear much of what Mr. Callaghan said to the woman at the desk, but what he did hear was enough: “I don’t want him anymore.”

  Without a backward glance, Mr. Callaghan left him there. For the system. With the troublemakers, the losers, the worthless rejects of the world.

  Where he belonged.

  He thought he heard his mother laugh.

  Still in his pajamas, he hung his head and stared at his bare feet, feeling nothing.

  * * *

  Charlene sat in her idling car in Ben’s driveway, eyeing his house and dreading what she had to do. Stalling, she rolled on lip balm. She’d hardly managed any sleep the night before, and she had a headache. She was drained and tired, and it was only ten o’clock in the morning.

  On Valentine’s Day.

  Not the day she would voluntarily choose to do something like this. For breaking an engagement, it rated right up there with a birthday, Christmas, or New Year’s. The opposite of romantic, for sure. But she hadn’t been able to get off work till today, and Ben was expecting her.

  As much as she didn’t want to face this, she couldn’t bear to drag this out, stringing him along for even one more day.

  Ironic or not, she hoped Saint Valentine didn’t mind her turning to him with her desperate plea. Ask the Lord to help Ben understand. Help me to say the right words.

  If she were more of a coward, she would do this over the phone. Giving herself a little shake, she gripped her purse and picked her way over ice patches to the front stoop.

  Without her even knocking, the door swung wide, revealing a virtual garden on wheels. Ben sat in his chair with a huge bouquet of red roses on his lap. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

  Thoughtful. Sweet. She was going to miss that about him. She entered, stomped the snow from her boots, and then pulled them off.

  “Don’t just stand there on the wet rug. C’mere.” One of his hands secured the vase of flowers while the other opened wide for a hug. She lowered herself compliantly and rested her head on his shoulder. He nudged her face with his, maneuvering so that their lips touched, and they kissed.

  Her heart wept that he didn’t realize it was their last one, a goodbye kiss.

  She eased herself away, removed her coat, and ran hands over her sweater, smoothing and tugging it down. “Hey, so I really want to talk to you about something.” She glanced at Lucy reading a book in the living room and lowered her voice. “Can we go talk in private?”

  A hint of concern crossed Ben’s brow, but he nodded. “Yeah, sure. No problem.” His voice lowered. “Just don’t tell me you want to change our invitation selection, or my mom will freak.”

  In that case, this might kill her.

  Then again, she might be delighted.

  Charlene’s clammy hands twisted together as she gave a belated, insufficient little laugh. She heard Mrs. Jorgensen moving around in the kitchen.

  “So what’s up?” Ben asked after he’d closed the door to his dad’s study behind them.

  She nibbled at her bottom lip and scanned the floor-to-ceiling bookcase before forcing her eyes back to Ben’s expectant ones. She heaved in a breath. Just say it.

  “I’m sorry, Ben, but I can’t marry you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ben’s face appeared paralyzed. It barely even moved when he forced out, “You don’t mean that.” His hands clutched the arms of his wheelchair, tendons protruding starkly.

  Sinking into a chair so she wouldn’t be looking down on him, Charlene expelled a breath. “I do, Ben. I can’t go through with it. It’s not fair to you.”

  “No, you’re just nervous, that’s all, now that we’re counting down and the invitations are almost ready and—”

  She stopped his words by laying a hand on his forearm. He just looked at it.

  “Then why?” His voice strained. “We’re so good together, can’t you see that? Don’t doubt us, please. You’ve never been able to see how perfect we are together. You’ve always made me work so hard to convince you—”

  “Exactly. Ben, don’t you see?” She held his gaze. “You should never have had to ‘convince’ me. I never wanted this—you—enough,” she admitted softly. It was always more the idea of finding that safe happily-ever-after that she’d yearned for.

  Ben shook his head and took her hand. “If it’s because you’re mad about still not having a ring, I haven’t forgotten. It’s in the works. It will be worth the wait, I promise. Just give me a few more weeks. That’s all—”

  “Oh Ben, it’s nothing to do with the ring. I never should have said yes in the first place. It’s my fault. You just . . . you did everything right . . . I couldn’t see . . .”

  “Excuses.” He dropped her hand. “You’ve just never forgiven me for the Fourth of July, have you? How many times do I have to say I’m—”

  “This has nothing to do with the Fourth of July.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Anger crept into his tone. “Maybe it has everything to do with it. You’r
e breaking your promise to marry me, let me ask you this. Did you break your other promise, too?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?” he said tersely. “Have you seen Clay since you promised me you wouldn’t?”

  She swallowed. “Not intentionally. Our paths crossed a couple times, but—”

  Ben smacked the arm of his chair. “Perfect. I saw this coming. I warned you not to move away, not to move near him, but you did anyway.” He turned hard eyes on her. “Like you wanted this to happen. And that kiss. You don’t just have commitment issues, you have all sorts of issues. You have ever since I’ve known you. I’ve treated you like spun glass. No one else is going to do that for you, Charlene. Not another guy, certainly not your precious ex-convict.”

  “Ben—”

  “Let me finish. You told me I could trust you. You led me on all this time, wasted years of my life. I’m supposed to be okay with that?”

  “I’m so sorry.” Her thumb rubbed her palm, heating her scar with friction. “I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing. That was never my intention.”

  “Then what was your intention? Because I tell you, mine was always honorable.” A single tear leaked from his eye. He dashed it away. “Always.”

  Her throat tightened to a dangerous point, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. “We’re not right for each other, that’s all. You can’t tell me you haven’t sensed that. How we’ve changed, drifted apart—”

  “Drifted? More like ripped. Ripped apart by you and that loser.”

  “Don’t. He’s not.”

  “So you’ll stand up for him. You’ll be loyal to him. But me, nah. Forget about me. Forget about us.” Ben spread his hands. “Nothing worth holding onto here. Just three years’ worth of nothing. If it’s that easy for you to walk away, then go ahead. Do it.”

  Knowing words would fail her, she pleaded with her eyes for him to understand, but was met with a stony stare.

  “Do it,” he repeated.

  Despite the bitter words, she knew he didn’t want her to accept the challenge. Her feet stayed braced against the floor. “Can’t you see I’m trying to make this right?”

  “But you can’t. There’s no making this right.” His tone mocked. “Not like this. You’re only trying to ease your conscience, that’s all. What do you want me to say? ‘I don’t mind, go ahead and dump me and marry the guy you’ve been seeing behind my back.’ Is that it? Is that what you want to hear? ’Cause you’ll be waiting a long time if it is.”

  She pulled in a jagged breath.

  “And why don’t you even cry? At least pretend this is hard for you?” His tone dripped disgust. “I swear, Charlene, sometimes I think your heart is ice.”

  Her voice came out in a tiny whisper. “If you think that, then you don’t know me at all.” The burning at the back of her eyes intensified, unbearable, but she fought it with everything she had. No way would she let tears fall now.

  His words echoed in her head. “. . . your heart is ice.”

  But even a heart of ice could break. Her chest wrenched with a pain like her heart shattering, for everything they had shared that she thought had meant so much. Worthless now.

  “I should go.” She could say she was sorry a thousand more times, but it wouldn’t ease their suffering. She rose on weak knees and headed for the study door.

  “Wait, don’t leave.” Desperation filled Ben’s voice. “Would it make any difference if—”

  Something told her she had to turn and look.

  She did. And what she saw made her mouth drop open. At the same time, she stumbled back against the door with a hard bump.

  Ben no longer sat in his wheelchair, but stood unaided in front of it. He let the image sink in, then took two unfaltering, strong steps to her side.

  “How long?” she gasped up at him. She never thought she would see him stand over her again. “How long have you been able to walk?” Her feeling of what should have been happiness for him was blotted by incredulity and something else, something far from joy.

  “Only a few months. It happened so gradually, with all the therapy. I didn’t believe it could, at first. The chances were so low, but—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? You told me there was no hope. All this time you had me believing—”

  “I wanted to surprise you.” He ducked his head.

  “No.” She studied the shameful expression he was trying to mask. “There’s more to it than that. You don’t hide something like that. Not from your fiancée.”

  His head whipped back up. “If you’d been a better fiancée, I wouldn’t have felt like I had to.” His words cut deep, and he looked regretful the moment they escaped. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder, and she winced.

  “You don’t realize how well I know you, how well I can read you. My being unable to walk, and the guilt you felt . . . that was the only thing keeping you with me. Don’t deny it. If you had known, you would have already been gone. I needed the extra time to win you back.”

  Her disbelief at the monumental scale of his deception gagged her. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. “And your family’s known all this time . . . you’ve all gone along with this façade when I’ve visited. And at church . . .” She pictured him in the wheelchair. He’d gone to such elaborate lengths to keep the secret. “All along, I’ve been the brunt of this huge, cruel joke.” She shook his hands off her.

  Pain flashed over his face. “Why can’t you just be happy for me? For us?”

  Because there is no us.

  Then like a punch to her gut, she was struck by a horrifying thought. She put a hand over her mouth. “The break-in. The damage to your wheelchair. Tell me that was real. You didn’t make all that up too, did you? In some twisted scheme for pity or—”

  “No!” His eyes snapped. “I would never stage that. It was real, I swear.”

  She believed him, but wasn’t comforted.

  “Please try to understand,” he said earnestly. “I was going to tell you.”

  “How do I know that?” She put a hand on the cold doorknob. “If I hadn’t broken up with you—would you have just gone on with the sham till you—you’d caught me and married me?” Her voice faltered. “We always promised to be honest with each other, Ben.”

  “Yeah, well, then we both failed. But that doesn’t mean we have to throw everything away.”

  A thought crackled through her, shocking like static. “Kate.” She turned back. “Did she know?”

  “Know what?”

  She could see the dread forming on his face.

  She had her answer.

  But she would make him say it. “Did she know that you recovered, that you can walk?”

  At least he was man enough to meet her eyes. “Yes.”

  She gave a short nod and whispered, “She’s been there for you.”

  “Charlene, please. We can work through this.”

  “No. There’s nothing left to work through.” She turned the knob and stepped into the hall. “I’m done. I’m saying goodbye, Ben. But I’m glad you can walk again. I really am.”

  “Of course you are.” He spat the words. “It’s all very convenient for you. Now you can run back to your kidnapper, guilt free.”

  Teeth clenched, she strode down the hall as Ben hurried after her. As they passed the living room, Lucy looked up, saw him walking, and chimed in mockingly, “Well alleluia, it’s a miracle!”

  Indeed, and I prayed for that miracle.

  Sometimes it was funny how God answered prayers.

  * * *

  The woman was so tired, but the baby was crying again. So loud, so heartbreaking, wails of sorrow that couldn’t be quenched, pulling at her, tugging her from the insulating cavern of sleep where she didn’t have to feel. Didn’t have to remember . . .

  She pulled her eyes open to darkness. Ears straining, she heard only silence and realized she didn’t have to get up after all.

  But she was awa
ke now. Her hand slid beside her over the cold mattress and her heart panged. Awake and alone in her bed. Always alone. Would he ever take his rightful place beside her?

  She released a quivery sigh and rested her hand on her stomach, her saggy, slack-skinned belly like an empty, floppy bag. Empty like her heart.

  She squeezed a fistful of skin. The plan hadn’t worked. Yet she was like a moth drawn to his treacherous flame. Returning again and again, despite her singed wings.

  Tears leaked, wetting her pillow. She remembered when he was all hers. Only hers. He would be again. She couldn’t give up. All she needed was a new bargaining chip to ensure his return.

  There had to be something . . . some way . . .

  She sat up suddenly, knowing what she had to do.

  * * *

  Was he dying? He’d heard life flashes before you when you’re dying. Didn’t seem worth it, but his brain flashed anyway. The lonely house. The rancid smells. Hunger gnawing. The witch of a woman, the needle scars in her arms. Her screams. “I’m your mother! Respect me!”

  He never did.

  He was glad when she was gone.

  Foster homes. So many. So many things for the taking.

  The Callaghans. They had the most. If he could have taken all their money . . .

  None of the others had as much as them, but there was always something to take. And nothing to stop him. The fools knew it was him, but they couldn’t prove it.

  He took to the streets, learning real life skills. Fighting. Building brain and brawn. People started to fear him.

  Fear gave him power.

  At eighteen, he was free of the foster system and celebrated with a needle to the arm. But not like the witch. Never like the witch.

  The tattoos pleased him. The nails looked right. Hard. Sharp. Tough. He’d chosen the old Roman kind—rugged and barbaric.

  He robbed his first convenience store that week. The rush was better than any drug. An invigorating high. And he was just getting started . . .