A Sinclair Homecoming (The Sinclairs of Alaska)

by Kimberly van Meter - A Sinclair Homecoming (The Sinclairs of Alaska)

  “Of course,” she murmured, stroking his hair with mechanical motions. David liked his hair gently stroked in a certain way. Although the hospital had recommended that she stay overnight, David had been insistent that he would care for her. Lying in their bed as David wept, Morgan had wished for the solitude of a hospital room. “It’s okay.”

  “Why do you push me to do those things?” he asked plaintively. “And why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  He pressed a tender kiss to her belly and hugged her tightly. “To think...my child had been growing right here... I am beside myself over what happened.” His words had seemed so sincere, so racked with grief that she’d actually begun to wonder if things were going to get better. Perhaps a child would heal what was broken between them. “Can you ever forgive me, my love?”

  “Of course,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. Six weeks pregnant was hardly pregnant at all. They could try again. They would try again. And everything would be wonderful again.

  Morgan closed her eyes, hating that she was stuck remembering old history when she tried so hard to forget. Maybe it was the Sinclair case dredging up the past. Or maybe it was her failed attempt to go to grief counseling. But either way, she wanted to be done with it.

  Startled, she realized tears were tracking down her face. Damn it. She wiped at her face with a tissue and forced a bright smile. That’s it. Smile. David is dead. No one knows your secret and everything is fine.

  Just fine.

  Morgan squared her shoulders and put the car into Drive, making a mental note to order new tires before the snow season started.

  * * *

  WADE WAS SILENT most of the drive to their parents’ house but his mind was anything but still. “I don’t understand,” he said finally, shifting in the passenger seat as he tried to make sense of everything. “How did this happen?”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t happen overnight. You know me and Mom have always had a rocky relationship so I wasn’t spending a lot of time at the house, plus with Dad doing his marijuana growing, I didn’t want to know too much. And frankly, I had my own stuff I was going through. I didn’t have time to try and figure out what was going wrong with Mom and Dad. I thought they’d work it out somehow. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I realized that things had gotten way out of control. By that time, it was more than I could handle on my own.”

  “But this sort of hoarding takes years to accumulate, right?”

  “Yes and no. I mean, Mom’s always been a collector so I was used to seeing gobs of stuff piling up here and there but it didn’t get to this point until the last year. I think it has a lot to do with Dad moving out to the shed to be closer to his marijuana. Maybe it was the final straw.”

  “And Dad is sitting things out in jail right now?”

  “Yeah. Both Rhett Fowler and Trace tried to bail him out but Dad refused. So he’s there to stay at least until we can get things figured out with Mom. Honestly, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with him, too.”

  Wade agreed, rubbing at his eyes. “Do you have any aspirin? My head is splitting.”

  “Glove compartment.”

  Wade reached in and grabbed the bottle, shaking out two tablets and tossing them back without water. He’d crunch them like candy if he had to to make this pain stop. They rolled up to the house, and he hated how desolate and empty the place looked. Helluva homecoming. They exited the car, and he surveyed the land. Still beautiful. His parents’ place was backed up to the national forest, which gave it an enviable backdrop but an unenviable position of fending off the wildlife at times. “Nothing changes about those mountains,” he murmured mostly to himself. “Brings back memories.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.” Miranda smiled and then gestured grimly for him to follow. “Let’s get this over with. The tour is a short one.”

  Wade followed his sister to the house and after unlocking the door, ducked under the caution tape stretched across it and walked into what used to be his childhood home.

  Used to be was the appropriate phrase. “What the...” Ah, hell—the picture didn’t do the actual situation justice. “She lived in this?” He covered his nose as the smell hit him. “Oh, God. What is that stench?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine but as far as I can tell, it’s coming from the kitchen.” Miranda pushed past a pile of magazines and books and danced out of the way as they tumbled to the floor. “Careful. You never know what might come tumbling down.” They pushed toward what had once been Simone’s room and bracing himself, Wade opened the door.

  “Are you kidding me?” he breathed against the reveal. In stark contrast to the rest of the house, Simone’s room looked as it did the day she died. He looked to Miranda and she appeared just as stricken. “What the hell is going on? It feels like a shrine.”

  “That’s because it is.” Miranda was just as horrified. “I can’t believe that dotty woman would do this. Simone didn’t even live here anymore when she died! She lived with me that summer.”

  As Wade surveyed the room, creeped out by the feeling that Simone might pop from a shadow, he realized any hope he might have harbored of a quick resolution died as the knowledge that their mother might very well need professional help, after all, sank in.

  “I’ve seen enough,” he said curtly, motioning for Miranda to leave. He closed the door behind them, and they made their way free from the claustrophobic clutter of their parents’ home. Once clear, Miranda locked the front door and handed Wade the keys, which also had the car keys. He accepted the keys and drew a deep breath, even though his chest felt as if an elephant had stomped on it. He opened his mouth but didn’t have the words. Miranda seemed to understand. She hugged him tightly and simply nodded. He appreciated her silence. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to stay. In the end, he knew he’d have to do both.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked as they broke apart. “You can stay with me if you want. I live in town. Trace and Delainey live outside of town. Both of us have a spare bedroom. Take your pick.”

  “Thanks but I booked a hotel. I managed to find something in town that was reasonable.”

  “Talen is going to be bummed. He was looking forward to meeting Uncle Wade in person.”

  Wade always made sure to send his only nephew a birthday card with money but he’d actually never met the kid. He forced a smile. “I’d love to but I think I need a little time to process. But let Talen know that I will definitely see him before I leave, okay?”

  “He’ll be so excited. He said you always send the best presents. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

  Well, his secretary, Nancy, deserved most of the credit for his gift choices as she had a son around the same age and always pitched in with suggestions when Wade was unsure. He ought to come clean but he was tired and ready to put an end to this day. “Dinner sounds good,” he agreed, and they hugged again before climbing into separate cars and driving off in separate directions.

  He needed to put some distance between himself and everything he’d just discovered.

  Hell, he needed a beer and sleep.

  Tomorrow would come all too soon—and with it, one helluva fight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Jennelle started, her lip trembling as her gaze darted from Wade to Morgan O’Hare. “This is ridiculous. I don’t need an evaluation. I’m not crazy!”

  “No one is saying you’re crazy,” Morgan assured Jennelle with a pleasant smile that was completely lost on Jennelle because she was getting mad. “Due to the state of your home and your refusal to stay out of the home until it’s been cleared, APS felt it prudent to do a mental-health evaluation. I assure you, nobody thinks you’re crazy. You’ve been through an ordeal and everyone, including your children, has your best inter
ests at heart. Isn’t that right, Wade?”

  Pulled into the conversation, Wade had no choice but to pick a side. And if he wasn’t telling that woman to go stick her mental eval up her backside, he wasn’t on his mother’s side. But he’d prefer to do this without the audience of a stranger. He looked to Morgan and asked, “Can I have a moment with my mother, please?”

  “Of course,” she said. “How about I grab a coffee in the lounge? Would that give you enough time?”

  He nodded, and Morgan exited the room, the sharp click of her heels receding down the hall. Wade sighed as he came around to his mother’s side, saying, “Here’s the deal, Mama...I’ve seen the house. No more games. No more lies.”

  “What are you saying? Are you calling me a liar? Wade Neal Sinclair, shame on you. I’ve never lied to you in my life.”

  “Mama, that house ought to be burned to the ground,” he said, shocking her. “I don’t even have words to describe the mess you’ve got going on in that place. And the smell? I nearly threw up. I couldn’t handle being in there for longer than five minutes. And then Miranda tells me that you’ve been sleeping in the bathtub? What the hell is that about? C’mon, Mama...you’ve gotta know that’s not okay.”

  Her chin lifted. “That Miranda is the problem. She’s got you all riled up.”

  “No. Miranda isn’t the problem. I hate to say this but it seems, right now, you’re the problem.” At her pale and wounded expression, Wade tried to soften the blow. “Mama...I know you’ve had a rough time of things with Simone dying but she wasn’t your only child. We all loved her but we have to let her go.”

  “Don’t tell me about letting go. I’m sick and tired of everyone talking about things they know nothing about. You don’t have children and I pray that when you do, you never know the pain of losing one.” Tears welled in Jennelle’s eyes and her heart monitor began to beep in warning.

  Ah, hell, that can’t be good. He’d gone and upset her. He started to apologize but Jennelle’s watery cry strangled the life out of him. “Simone was my special g-girl and you can’t tell me to s-stop missing her.”

  Helplessness overwhelmed him at the evidence of his mother’s unhealthy grief, and he didn’t know what to do or say that wouldn’t make it worse—was that possible?—but he knew things had to change. “Of course not, Mama,” he said in a conciliatory manner meant to be soothing. “We all miss her. But...there was something creepy about that room.” He knew instinctively that he probably shouldn’t mention he’d seen the room but damn it, something had to be said and done about it. “You can’t keep a shrine to her. It’s not right. Simone wouldn’t have wanted that.”

  “You obviously think I’m crazy just like your brother and sister. Go ahead and join the Judas team. I’m used to the feeling of this knife in my back.”

  He bit back a hot retort. “Listen, Dr. O’Hare seems like a really nice lady. Why not just give her what she needs so we can start fixing this mess you’re caught up in.”

  “What if she says I’m crazy? What then? Will you believe her?”

  Ahhh, that was a good question. He didn’t want to believe any of this but after seeing what he saw last night, he couldn’t ignore that his mother may very well need some professional help. “Just because you need a little help doesn’t mean people are going to cart you off to a mental institution,” he said, dodging her question a bit. “I don’t pretend to know anything about what creates a hoarder—”

  “Don’t call me that word.”

  “Mama, face facts. You are a hoarder.”

  “I am not. I’m a collector and have been since you were a boy. Was I a hoarder then, too?”

  “Of course not, but you can’t try and tell me that your house was this bad when we were growing up. I couldn’t walk through the living room without tripping on something, and there is definitely something dead in that kitchen,” he said, trying for patience but Lord, his mother could push a saint. He’d forgotten how difficult she could be when she dug her heels in. Now he knew why Miranda wanted to push her into oncoming traffic at times.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a sniff as if he’d just uttered complete nonsense. “Something dead. There’s no need to exaggerate to the extreme. Yes, the house is a bit disorganized but I am not a hoarder and I will not sit here and allow people to put a label on me that doesn’t belong.”

  “Mama,” he said sharply when he realized they were going nowhere fast. “I’m not going to debate semantics with you. APS has determined you are a hoarder. Whether you agree with the term or not is immaterial. I’m dealing in facts, not feelings at the moment. You want to get back into your house?” She nodded petulantly. “Okay, then. The plan to accomplish that is to do whatever needs to be done and that includes talking to Dr. O’Hare, cleaning up that house and getting rid of that damn shrine to your dead daughter.”

  “I don’t see what Simone’s room has to do with anything,” Jennelle muttered. “Her room was spotless.”

  “Which only makes it doubly creepy because the rest of the house is a trash dump.” She gasped and looked away, hurt. He stopped, biting his tongue at his harsh words. He was no better than Trace if he couldn’t rein in his temper. His mother needed understanding, not shaming. He drew a deep breath and tried again. “I’m sorry, Mama...I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m just frustrated is all and worried, too,” he said.

  Her dull answer, “Don’t worry, I’m used to it,” cut him deep but he supposed he had it coming. She sighed, heavy and wounded, as she added with a small shrug, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this but there’s not much I can do about it except suffer through it, I suppose.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I’m just trying to get you back into your house.” At that she nodded, and he felt the first tiny concession on her part. “So you’ll talk to Dr. O’Hare?”

  A long pause stretched between them until Jennelle offered a grudging “Yes,” but there remained that mulish expression on her face that never boded well, and Wade knew better than to hope for smooth sailing but he’d take it.

  “Excellent.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll go get her.”

  Although Morgan had said she’d return after coffee, he needed out of that room with his mother. The knowledge that he’d been happy to leave the situation resting on his siblings’ shoulders didn’t feel good. He didn’t know how Miranda handled this day in and day out. He was already looking to bail and he’d only been dealing with his mother for a day. He figured a trip to the jail to see his dad was also on the schedule. Truthfully, he’d rather eat raw monkey brains than see his dad in those orange jail smocks. Simone’s death had tipped everyone’s world upside down and he hadn’t realized that not everyone had found their equilibrium again.

  He spotted Dr. O’Hare pouring creamer into her coffee and reluctantly drew her attention. “She’s ready for you,” he said, but stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm. “Dr. O’Hare, may I have a private word with you before you go in?”

  She smiled. “Of course. I can imagine this ordeal is very trying for your entire family.”

  “Yeah, something like that. Listen, I’m just going to come out and say it—my mom is difficult. Hell, my whole family is difficult. If you looked the word up in the dictionary, our family picture would probably be staring right back at you. But I can’t even imagine what my mom has been going through because frankly, I haven’t been here. I feel bad about that now that I see what’s been going on. All I’m saying is, please try not to take anything she may say personally. Sometimes my mom’s filter is nonexistent.”

  “First, please call me Morgan. I like my patients and their families to feel comfortable with me. Unless you’re more comfortable with Dr. O’Hare, of course. Either way is fine with me.”

  He ought to keep things professional and with a certain amount of distance but he liked
her name. It rolled off his tongue nicely. And he did feel less stiff when he used her given name. “All right, Morgan it is,” he agreed with a small smile in return, but he really needed to ask what was truly worrying him. “Can you help my mom? Please tell me you’ve seen worse cases.”

  “I will certainly try to help,” Morgan answered, but sidestepped his other question, probably because it wasn’t professional to answer and he respected that, even if he’d hoped for a reassurance. “A major key to successful therapy is the patient’s willingness to accept help.”

  “Well, she’s not exactly jumping up and down at the idea,” he admitted wryly. “But she really wants to move back home so maybe that will motivate her into accepting the help she needs.”

  “Perhaps. You’d be surprised how some people are tied to their past in an integral way. Letting go will feel like losing a part of herself.”

  “Wow. That’s deep.” He chuckled out of discomfort. Well, seeing as it was going to come up at some point, anyway, he decided to beat her to the punch. “Should we talk about the elephant in the room?” At Morgan’s quizzical expression, he said, “Simone’s death...it seems my parents can’t let her go.”

  Understanding dawned and she said, “Ah, that. Yes, well, grief is a powerful emotion and can cause all kinds of emotional as well as physical manifestations. Hoarding, phobias, even insomnia—their roots can often be traced to an extreme emotional upset in the patient’s past.”

  Insomnia. That was something he knew about. But it wasn’t because of his grief. He’d long since put to rest his feelings about losing his baby sister. “Well, some people aren’t as strong as others, I suppose.”

  “It’s not a question of strength,” she corrected him with a gentle smile. “Some people are so strong that they find a way to cope with the side effects but that doesn’t mean they processed their feelings in a productive and healthy manner.”