Izzy looked up at him when they were alone in the room. Her brown eyes were wide with uncertainty.
“I don’t need help, Izzy,” he said. “I’m just fine, really.” She looked at him a moment longer, then slowly she moved toward him. He thought she was going to walk past him, but at the last second, she stopped and looked up at him.
It killed him to see the fear in her eyes, and that damned black glove almost did him in. Annie was right. He had to be a better father. No more drinking to dull the memories and sugarcoat his failures. He had to take care of his baby. Feeling awkward and unsure, he smiled down at her. “Come on, Izzy-Bear. Let’s go.”
Slowly, he covered her one bare hand with his larger, calloused one. Together, they walked toward the sunroom. His steps matched hers perfectly. It was sadly silent between them, the daughter who no longer spoke and the father who had no idea what to say.
Annie was beaming when they walked in. The sunroom looked like a picture from one of those women’s magazines. There was a bright blue tablecloth on the rickety plank table, with a centerpiece of huckleberry and dogwood in a crockery vase. Plates were heaped with scrambled eggs and pancakes. Beside the three empty plates were glasses of milk and orange juice.
“Sit down,” she said to both of them. She helped Izzy into a seat and scooted her close to the table.
Nick slowly sat down, trying to ignore the drums beating inside his head.
“Just coffee for me,” he croaked. “I feel like shi—” He glanced at Izzy. “I feel bad. A headache, is all.”
Izzy’s eyes told him that she knew all about Daddy’s headaches. Guilt came at him hard, riding on the crest of shame.
He reached for the pitcher of orange juice, but his aim was off. He whacked the vase with his fist, sent it flying. Water sprayed everywhere, evergreen boughs flopped across the eggs, dripping. The vase hit the floor with a loud craaack.
Nick squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit,” he moaned, cradling his throbbing head in his hands.
“Now, don’t you worry a bit about that. Everyone has accidents—don’t they, Izzy?” Annie stood up and dabbed at the puddles with her napkin.
He turned to Annie, ready to tell her that he had to get the hell out of here, but her smile stopped him. She looked so damned . . . hopeful. He couldn’t bear to disappoint her. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat and wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow with a weak hand.
Annie gave him a broad smile and began dishing out food. She served herself a man-size portion of eggs and a stack of pancakes a logger couldn’t finish.
He tried to concentrate on that, her food—anything besides his headache and the tremors that quaked through his limbs. “Are you going to eat all that?”
She laughed. “I’m from California. I haven’t had an egg in fifteen years, and lately I’ve been eating like a pig. I’m hungry all the time.” Still smiling, she poured syrup over the whole god-awful mess and began eating and talking, eating and talking.
Nick curled both shaking hands around a thick porcelain coffee cup. When he thought he was steady enough, he brought the cup to his lips and took a slow, thankful sip. The hot coffee soothed his jittery nerves and took the shine off his headache. Slowly, slowly, he leaned back in the chair and let himself be carried away by the comforting buzz of Annie’s voice. After a while, he managed to eat a bit of breakfast. Through it all, Annie talked and laughed and carried on as if they were a family who ate breakfast together every morning, instead of a silent, disappearing child and her hungover father. She acted as if it were normal, what Nick and Izzy had become.
He couldn’t take his eyes off Annie. Every time she laughed, the sound moved through Nick in a shiver of longing, until he began at last to wonder how long it had been since he had laughed, since his Izzy had laughed . . . how long since they’d had something to laugh about or a moment together in which to find joy. . . .
“I thought we’d go to the Feed Store today and buy some gardening supplies,” Annie said brightly. “It’s a good day to get that flower garden into shape. Why, if the three of us worked, it would take no time at all.”
Gardening. Nick recalled how much he used to love working in the yard, planting bulbs, raking leaves, snip-ping dead roses from the thorny bushes. He’d loved the triumph of watching something he’d planted and watered and nurtured actually grow. He had always loved the first buds of spring, but this year they’d come without his even noticing. All he’d noticed was the spindly, bare cherry tree he’d planted after Kathy’s funeral.
“What do you think, Izzy?” Annie said into the thick silence. “Should we let your dad help?”
Izzy picked up her spoon, holding it in two tiny fingers—the only ones his baby thought she had left—and shook it so hard it cracked on the table.
Annie gazed at him across the flowers. “That means your daughter would love to garden with you, Nick Delacroix. Can she count on you?”
Nick wanted to pretend it was that easy, a few spoken words at a breakfast table and everything could be made right again. But it had been a long, long time since he’d been that naive. Even as he nodded, he knew that it could end up being a lie. Another promise made by a man who’d kept too few.
Chapter 12
Nick sat in his squad car on the edge of downtown Mystic. Beyond the six short blocks, Mount Olympus rose like something out of a fairy tale, its snow-capped peak brushed up against the swollen gray underbelly of the sky. Leaves scudded across the rough concrete sidewalk, pushed along by a chilly breeze. As always, the town looked beaten and forlorn, tired around the edges. A steady stream of gray white smoke issued from the mill’s distant stack, leaving behind the acrid, pulpy scent of wood.
He used to love walking these streets. He’d known everything about the people he was sworn to protect: when their daughters were getting married and their sons were preparing for bar mitzvahs, when their grandparents were moved into nursing homes and when their kids started day care. He’d always taken pride in how well he did his job; he knew that by checking up on these people every day, he contributed to their sense of well-being.
He knew he’d been letting everything that mattered slip away from him, but he was terrified to start caring again. What if he failed Izzy once more? She needed so much from him, his brown-eyed little girl, and Nick had an ugly habit of failing those he loved. Even when he tried his best. It was his fault Izzy was disappearing, his fault she didn’t feel safe or loved; he knew that. If he’d been a stronger man, a better man, he could have helped her through the grief, but he hadn’t been able to do a damn thing. Hell, he couldn’t even help himself, and he sure as hell hadn’t helped Kathy.
It would be difficult, finding his way back, but Annie was right. It was time. For the first time in months, he felt a stirring of hope.
He eased out of the car and took a first cautious step into his old life. He merged quietly into the crowd of late-afternoon shoppers. All around him, people were moving, darting into stores, coming back out with paper bags and parcels. He noticed the sounds of everyday life. Car doors slamming, horns honking, quarters clicking into parking meters.
Every person he saw waved at him, said “Heya, Nick” as he passed, and with each greeting, he felt himself coming back to life. It was almost like the old days, before Kathy’s death. Back when his uniform had always been clean and starched, and his hands had never trembled.
He walked past the stores, waving at shopkeepers. At the kids’ clothing store, he saw a beautiful little pink dress in the window. It was exactly what Izzy needed. As he opened the door, a bell tinkled overhead.
Susan Frame squealed from her place at the cash register and came at Nick like a charging bull, her pudgy pink hands waving in the air. “Good Lord, I can’t believe it’s you.”
He grinned. “Hi, Susan. Long time no see.”
She swatted him on the shoulder and laughed, her triple chins jiggling. “You haven’t been in here in ages.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“How are you doing?”
“Better. I saw that little girl’s dress in the window—”
She clapped her pudgy hands together. “Ooh-ee, that’s a beautiful thing. Perfect for Miss Isabella. How old is she now?”
“Six.”
“Ooh, I’ll bet she’s growing like a weed. I haven’t seen her since her mama—” She shut up abruptly and took him by the arm, propelling him through the store. He let himself be carried away by her steady, comforting stream of words. He wasn’t listening to her; she knew it and didn’t care. She seemed to sense that it was a major event for him to be here.
She plucked the dress off the hanger. It was a pink and white gingham with a white lace underskirt and a pale blue yoke embroidered with tiny pink and white flowers. It reminded him of Kathy’s garden—
Come out here, Nicky—the tulips are coming up—
It hit him like a blow, the memory. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t think about the flowers . . . don’t think about her at all. . . .
“Nick? Are you feeling well?”
A little unsteadily, he pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pants pocket and tossed it on the counter. “The dress is perfect, Susan. Can you wrap it up?”
She answered, but he wasn’t listening. All he could think about was Zoe’s, and how a single drink—just one— would calm the shaking in his hands.
“Here you go, Nick.”
It seemed only a second had passed before she was back beside him, waving a big lavender-wrapped package beneath his face. He wet his dry lips and tried to smile.
Susan touched his shoulder. “Nick, are you all right?”
He nodded, though even that simple action seemed to take too long. “I’m fine. Fine. Thanks.” Gripping the package, he pushed through the glass door and went outside.
It had started to rain, big nickel-size drops that splashed his face. He glanced longingly toward Zoe’s.
No. He wouldn’t go that way. He’d finish out his rounds and head home. Izzy and Annie were waiting, and he didn’t want to disappoint them. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and kept moving down the street, his hand resting lightly on his baton. With each step, he felt better, stronger.
He returned to his patrol car and got inside, ducking out of the hammering rain. He reached for the radio, but before he could say anything, a call came out.
Domestic disturbance on Old Mill Road.
“Shit.” He answered the call, flicked on his siren, and headed out of town.
When he reached the Weavers’ driveway, he knew it was bad already. Through the falling rain and the curtain of trees, he could see the distant red and yellow blur of lights. He raced up the bumpy road, his heart beating so fast he couldn’t draw an even breath.
The mobile home was surrounded by cars—two patrol cars and an ambulance.
Nick slammed the car in park and jumped out. The first person he saw was Captain Joe Nation, the man who had given Nick a place to live all those years ago.
Joe was walking out of the trailer, shaking his head. The long black and gray braids he wore swayed gently at the movement. Across the clearing, he caught sight of Nick, and he stopped.
“Joe?” Nick said, out of breath already.
Joe laid a thick, veiny hand on Nick’s forearm. “Don’t go in there, Nicholas.”
“No . . .”
“There’s nothing you can do now. Nothing anyone can do.”
Nick shoved past Joe and ran up the muddy driveway, splashing through the puddles. The door fell away beneath his shove and crashed against the wall.
Inside, several people were milling about, searching for clues in the green shag carpeting. Nick pushed past them and went into the bedroom, where Sally lay on the bed, her thin floral dress shoved high on her rail-thin legs, her face bloodied almost beyond recognition. A red-black blotch of blood seeped across her chest and lay in an oozing puddle across the wrinkled gray sheets.
Nick skidded to a stop. It felt as if pieces of him were crumbling away. He knew he was swaying like an old Doug fir in a heavy wind, but he couldn’t stop. He was thrown back suddenly to another time, another place, when he had had to identify a similarly beaten body . . .
“Goddamn it, Sally,” he whispered in a harsh, fractured voice.
He went to her, knelt beside her bed, and brushed the bloodied, matted hair away from her face. Her skin was still warm to the touch, and he could almost believe that she would wake up suddenly and smile and tell him that it was nothing.
“Don’t touch her, sir,” said someone. “The evidence . . .”
Nick drew his shaking hand back and got awkwardly to his feet. He wanted to pull her dress down—give her that final dignity at least—but he couldn’t. No one could do anything that mattered for Sally anymore. Now it was time for detectives and photographers and pathologists.
He turned blindly away from the bed and stumbled through the cluttered trailer, emerging into the rainy day; everything looked exactly as it had ten minutes ago, but nothing felt the same.
Joe came up to him, pulled him away from the trailer. It felt strangely as if it were years and years ago, back when Joe had met a skinny, freezing fifteen-year-old boy at the bus station in Port Angeles. “There was nothing you could do, Nicholas,” he said. “She didn’t want our help.”
Nick felt the life slowly, inexorably draining out of him. Buried images of another night, not long ago, were oozing to the forefront of his mind, images that were also stained in blood and violence and tragedy. He’d spent eight months running from the images of that night, burying them deep in his subconscious, but now they were back, killing him. “It’s too much,” he said, shaking his head. “Too much.”
Joe patted his back. “Go home, Nicholas. Go home to the little girl who loves you and your beautiful house on the lake and forget about this.”
Unable to move, Nick stood there, gripping the butt of his gun, standing in the rain, knowing there was only one thing that could help him now.
Nick hadn’t shown up for dinner again.
Annie had tried to pretend it meant nothing. She’d made a great show of cheeriness for Izzy, but she knew that the child wasn’t fooled. No amount of cookie dough or knock-knock jokes could make Izzy stop looking outside. . . .
Annie held the girl in her lap, gently rocking back and forth in a rocking chair on the porch. She hummed a quiet song and stroked Izzy’s silky hair.
She could feel a tiny tremble in the child’s body, and if she listened very, very carefully, she could hear the unasked questions in Izzy’s in-drawn breaths.
“Your daddy will be back soon, Izzy,” she said softly, praying it was true. “He loves you very much.”
Izzy didn’t move, didn’t respond.
“Sometimes grown-ups get confused . . . just like kids do. And your dad’s confused right now. He doesn’t feel like he belongs anywhere, but if we’re patient, and we give him time, I think he’ll figure it out. It’s hard to be patient, though, isn’t it? Especially when the waiting hurts.”
Annie’s voice faded. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the rocker, listening to the rhythmic scraping of wood on wood and the plunking echo of rain on the porch roof.
“He loves you, Izzy,” she said at last, perhaps more to herself than to the silent child. “I know he loves you.”
It took her a moment, but Annie realized there was a sound coming from the child, a tiny, reed-thin whisper that sounded like png-png-png.
She was mimicking the sound of the rain hitting the tin roof overhead.
Annie smiled.
Izzy was trying to find her way back.
Izzy felt the scream starting again. It was way down deep inside her, in that dark place where the nightmares lived. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mommy, and she remembered what she’d heard. You can’t follow me . . . can’t follow me . . . can’t follow me . . .
What if that were true? What if she disappeared into the fo
g and still couldn’t find her mommy? A tiny, whimpering cry escaped her lips.
She was scared. It was one of those nights when nothing good happened in her sleep and she woke up with tears on her cheeks. She kept dreaming about that doctor, the one with the pointy nose and the thick glasses who told her that she had to talk or else she wouldn’t get over her mommy. It had scared her so much, those grown-up words that she hardly understood. The last thing she’d ever said was to him. I don’t want to get over my mommy. . . .
Her whole body was shaking.
She didn’t want to scream again.
She threw the covers back and slithered out of bed, walking barefooted to the closed door. There, she stopped. She stared down at her own hand, at all that nothingness around her thumb and forefinger. She wished suddenly that she wasn’t disappearing, that she could just reach out and grab that old doorknob and twist it hard.
With a sigh, she used her two fingers to turn the knob. It took a while, but finally, she got the door open.
She poked her head out and saw the dark hallway.
Her daddy’s room was to the left, just three doors down, but she knew he wouldn’t be there. She’d heard Annie talking to Lurlene. They thought she was gone, but she wasn’t. She’d been hiding in the corners, listening.
Her daddy was in the bad place, the place that made him smell like cigarettes even though he didn’t smoke, the place that made him come home with that scary look in his eyes and slam his bedroom door shut. The place that made him walk funny.
She crept down the hallway and peeked over the railing, and saw Annie asleep on the sofa.
Annie, who held Izzy’s hand and brushed her hair and acted like it didn’t matter at all that she didn’t talk. Annie, who was going to make her mommy’s garden grow again.
Very slowly, she went down the stairs. The steps felt cold beneath her bare feet and made her shiver, but she didn’t care. Once she started walking, she felt better. The scream slipped back into the dark place.
Kristin Hannah Page 14