Dr. Atkinson sighed. “Like I said, this isn’t my area, but I would counsel patience. A lot depends on what kind of trauma we’re talking about.”
“What do you mean?” Henry asked.
“Well, for example, there’s a big difference in recovering from an isolated incident versus a lifetime of abuse or neglect. Alice said you don’t know much about Eve’s situation prior to coming here, am I right?”
Henry nodded.
“Rebuilding trust—trust in ourselves, trust in humanity in general—after a life-altering event can be difficult, even for those of us lucky enough to live healthy, stable lives.”
“And for the unlucky ones?” Henry couldn’t stop himself from asking.
The doctor raised his brows and puffed air out between his cheeks. “For the unlucky, learning how to trust can be a completely foreign concept. Like trying to teach a concerto to someone who’s never heard music before. It could be done, I suppose, with enough time and patience, but it would be a long, hard road.”
Alice’s mouth twisted in tight, worried lines. “But what if you get to the end of that road and realize your student is tone deaf?” she asked quietly.
Dr. Atkinson gave a serious look to both Alice and Henry in turn, mirroring their somber moods.
“As a doctor, my job is to help when and where I can. But one of the hardest things I’ve had to learn to accept is that some things can’t be fixed.”
Henry pulled back at the bald statement.
“Of course, that may not be the case here at all,” Dr. Atkinson went on, as if sensing how deeply those words had shaken Henry. “Like I said, it’s not my area of expertise.”
On that note, the doctor moved to take his leave. Henry and Alice watched him walk to his car, but Henry had one last question.
“Hey, Doc,” Henry called. “What happened to the boy? The one they found living in the woods?”
“Institutionalized,” Dr. Atkinson said. “He never learned to talk. Had trouble walking upright. There was speculation that the boy had been abandoned by his family because of disabilities, but we never knew for sure. No one ever came forward to claim him. There’s no way to know how long he was out there, on his own.”
“And did he ever learn? To hear the music?” Henry asked.
Dr. Atkinson winced. “No. I’m afraid he didn’t. He died a few years later.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The ticking of the old grandfather clock had never seemed so loud, nor so insistent, as it did during those next few days. It rang like a gong in Henry’s head, marking off with hateful clarity the moments that his mother would never have again. The moments that he would never have with her again.
It was late. Del was sleeping on the couch in the living room. He and Alice had come to lend whatever support they could. Henry appreciated him being here, even if he did spend the evening wandering from room to room with his hands awkwardly stuffed into his pockets.
Eve had sat at Mama’s bedside for hours until she’d nodded off. Henry knelt next to Eve and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“Why don’t you go get some sleep?” he asked. “If you can.”
“She’s kind. I never knew a woman to be so kind,” Eve said.
The hospice nurse on duty was quiet and competent, but her presence irritated his mother all the same, and she’d resisted the morphine drip Dr. Atkinson had recommended. The nurse had acquiesced, but the sterile medical equipment remained at the ready, if and when Mama changed her mind.
Mama’s fever worsened in the hours that passed, and with it, her control. They caught a glimpse of how much pain she was in.
“Should we call the doctor?” Alice whispered. She was using a damp washcloth to try and cool her mother-in-law’s forehead.
Before Henry could answer, his mother spoke up, though they’d both believed her to be sleeping after the last round of coughing.
“No more doctors,” she said in a low, raspy voice.
“Mama, it doesn’t have to be this way,” Henry said, glancing at the nurse, who was checking his mother’s vital signs.
One of his mother’s hands fluttered in the air, waving off his words, though she didn’t open her eyes. “Alice, lovely girl, I’m so thirsty,” she said. Alice leaned over to the bedside to bring a glass of water to her lips, but Mama opened her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “I’m sorry to ask it, but can you fetch me a glass of iced tea? With a little lemon, please?”
“Of course,” Alice said, replacing the water and leaping at the chance to fill any request so easily managed. If Mama wanted tea, then Alice would make sure it was tea she would have.
“Could I manage to get a little privacy with my son?” Mama asked the nurse, her tone not nearly as sweet. The woman’s face was impassive as she left them alone.
“Henry,” Mama beckoned him to her. He sat in the chair that was still warm with Alice’s body heat and took his mother’s frail hand in his own.
“You’d think when a person’s as close to knocking at the pearly gates as I am, they’d be blessed with some sort of wisdom to leave with their loved ones, wouldn’t you?” She gave him a small smile that quickly turned into a grimace of pain.
“Shh, Mama,” Henry said. “You don’t need to—”
“Don’t shush me, Henry, I’ll speak if I like.”
Even in her state, Henry could hear the steel behind her words. Just as there always had been, in spite of her mostly gracious ways. If you were listening closely enough.
“Livingston’s not going to take this well,” Mama said.
Henry’s face hardened. Livingston was a subject he didn’t want to discuss. The man had been and gone twice now since the doctor’s visit. He’d managed to enter the room where his wife lay dying on the second of those occasions, but Henry didn’t know what had been said. What he did know was that Livingston had practically run from the house after that, mumbling incoherently about the Lord’s work.
“He’s scared, Henry. And fear makes him weak, but don’t hold that against him,” his mother said, seeing the stony look on her son’s face.
Henry started to speak, but seeing the plea in his mother’s eyes, he closed his mouth and took a deep breath. “I’ll try,” he said.
She nodded. “That’s all I ask.” She shifted on the bed, looking for a position that would make her more comfortable, but comfort was impossible to find at this point. “Losing Maribel like we did . . . It nearly broke him.”
Henry didn’t need the reminder. He remembered all too well how Livingston had dealt with the aftermath of his daughter having taken her own life.
“It took all the strength he could muster to come back from that, and I worry . . . I worry that he won’t have any left to draw on this time.”
Henry believed she was right to worry. Because, he realized, Livingston hadn’t drawn on his own strength to recover from his daughter’s death; he’d drawn on the strength of his wife, so freely given.
Where would Livingston find that wellspring of courage once Mama was gone?
Where would Henry?
“I worry for you too, son,” she went on.
Henry shook his head, fighting against the constriction in his throat. “You don’t need to do that,” he said.
“I do, and you need to hear it. Bringing Eve here . . .” Mama shook her head and looked away. He could see the exhaustion in every line and crease of her face.
“Mama, you should rest,” he said.
“To hell with that!”
Henry pulled back in surprise, then leaned in again as her outburst brought on a coughing fit. While she recovered, Henry held her hand, shaken at the sound of the loose rattle in her chest.
“I don’t have any time left, Henry,” she said. Her voice was weaker, but her eyes were on fire. “These damn tumors won’t let me rest anyway. I’ve made my peace with that.”
“Mama—”
“No. Just listen. Bringing Eve here, it was my way of paying penanc
e for Mari. I let that girl down. We all did. Her father, her brother, Brady, Alice, all of us. She needed help, she needed help so badly, and we didn’t see it. We weren’t there for her. When I saw Eve, I saw another girl in need. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, turn a blind eye again. But that’s on me, Henry. Not you. You were just a child.”
Mama grimaced, closing her eyes, whether against the pain of the past or the pain of the present, Henry couldn’t know.
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Mama,” Henry said.
At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, Henry looked up to see Alice coming into the room with a tray. It was the same one his mother had filled to leave for Eve in the woods. Now it carried iced tea and a small bowl of broth.
Alice took one look at the two of them, and moved to set the tray down.
“I’ll just leave this and let you two be alone,” she said.
“No, Alice. Stay. Please,” Mama said.
Alice glanced at Henry, unsure, but he nodded. She pulled up another chair on the opposite side of the bed. His mother accepted when Alice offered her the tea. The ice cubes clinked in the glass as Alice brought the drink to the older woman’s parched lips, and she drank deeply.
“I worry I’ve brought a world of trouble down on you, bringing Eve here,” Mama continued when her thirst was sated. “I was selfish, looking to Eve to help me make up for my mistakes with Mari.”
Alice raised her eyebrows in Henry’s direction, but he could only shake his head in confusion.
“But you’re never too old for more mistakes, it seems,” Mama said.
“Are you saying you don’t want Eve here?” Henry asked, incredulous.
She shook her head. “No, of course not. But even a blind man can see what’s happening between the two of you.”
Henry sighed. “Then you should explain it to me, because I don’t understand it myself.”
“I know you don’t, son. I can see that too. And I’m afraid for you.”
“Eve’s not going to hurt me, Mama,” he said, trying to reassure her.
His mother gave a short, bitter laugh. “If you believe that, you’re a fool.”
Henry frowned. His skin was prickling where the hair on his arms and the back of his neck was standing on end.
“A love like that, Henry, where you’re so close that one breathes out and the other breathes in the same breath . . . It’s a powerful thing. Maybe the most powerful thing.”
Henry shook his head, ready to deny her words, even, or especially, to himself.
“Don’t shake your head at me. I know what I see. I’ve felt it myself. With your father.”
Henry knew his mother wasn’t referring to Livingston this time.
“It’s not the same,” Henry said.
“Oh, isn’t it? You don’t feel more alive when you’re with her, like the sun only rises once she walks in the room? The thought of walking away from her doesn’t feel like it will open a wound that your life’s blood will pour out of? In that case, I must be wrong.”
“I . . . It’s not . . . ,” Henry stammered, then stopped.
“That’s what I thought,” his mother said.
Alice sent him a look of pure sympathy that left him more conflicted than ever.
Feeling like a guillotine was hanging over his head, Henry stood, pushing the chair back behind him.
“What are you trying to say, Mama?” he asked, pacing the room. “Even if that’s true, do you really think there’s anything I can do about it now?”
She didn’t answer, and her silence brought his eyes back to her.
An aura of sadness surrounded his mother, pulling at her features and her limbs, and he watched her struggle to hold it back.
“I wish I had the answer to that. It seems like, this close to the end, I’ve earned the right to have some answers to share, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”
Henry took his seat again and hung his head. He didn’t want her to be consumed by this. Not now.
“It’ll work out, Mama,” he said, trying to reassure her.
“I wish I could believe that. And I hope it does. But, Henry, son, sometimes a love like that . . . It can be a terrible thing. It’s easy—too easy—to get lost in it. It can bury you alive, if you’re not careful.”
Henry didn’t know what to say.
“Love her, if you must. But try not to lose your way, Henry. Hold on to what makes you you, if you can. I’m proud of you, son. So damn proud of the man you’ve become. That man’s not a quitter. But sometimes, Henry . . . you need to understand that sometimes love’s not enough.”
Henry sat helpless as another round of coughing took his mother’s words away from her. Once the coughing finally subsided, her eyes remained closed this time, and he watched her give in to whatever sleep she could manage to wrest away from the cancer eating at her from the inside.
There were tears in his eyes as he met Alice’s gaze over his mother’s deathbed.
And he saw there were tears in hers as well. Henry could only be grateful that he wasn’t alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Repent, ye sinners who walk among men!” Livingston was shouting. “Repent, and earn God’s forgiveness. Repent your wicked ways, before it’s too late!”
Henry swerved and pulled the truck over. His front tire jumped the curb and he came to a stop on the sidewalk. There was no danger of hitting any passersby, as they’d all crossed to the other side of the street to avoid Livingston’s bruising rhetoric.
Henry slammed the gearshift into park and threw open the door of his truck. He marched over to where his stepfather stood perched on an old and battered metal trash can.
“Get in the truck, Livingston,” he said, with a calmness that valiantly tried to cover the anger simmering just below the surface.
Livingston ignored him.
“The sins of the flesh and the sins of the mind must be purged in the blood of the lamb, my disciples,” he continued to shout. “Follow me, I’ll show you the one true path to righteousness!”
“Livingston,” Henry said, his voice going up a notch. “Get your ass off that trash can and get in the damn truck.”
They were drawing a crowd. The same townspeople who’d turned their eyes away in awkward embarrassment while Livingston made a fool of himself alone stopped to stare openly at Henry’s struggle to rein his stepfather in. Henry must have been a sight, dressed in his black suit jacket, his face alternately calm, angry, and disgusted as he tried to get Livingston’s attention. Tried, and failed.
“The Lord Jesus did say, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die’!” Livingston’s words grew louder and more quarrelsome with each passing phrase, and still he ignored Henry standing at the foot of his makeshift pedestal.
“Jesus wept,” Henry muttered under his breath. “I’m telling you now, old man. Get down from there and get in the truck, or I swear to you, in the name of all that’s holy in your world, I will drag you down.”
“And the people believed! They believed, and now is your time to believe, my children, in the light and the—”
With a great and mighty shove, Henry placed his foot on the silver can and pushed, sending Livingston toppling down. The older man scrambled to his feet and came up swinging.
“How dare you?! How dare you—”
Henry grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled his face inches from his own.
“My mother is getting buried in the ground today, you son of a bitch. And you are going to be sitting in a pew, silent and contrite, or I promise you right here and now, I will put you in the grave next to her myself.”
Livingston’s face went white with grief, then splotches of color bloomed on his cheeks and Henry could see the pious anger begin to boil up in him.
“Go ahead. Swing at me. I’d love to knock you on your ass one more time,” Henry s
aid quietly.
Livingston sputtered, unintelligible sounds that gave away the wreck of a human being he’d become since the death of Caroline.
Henry hadn’t known Livingston’s first wife, Del and Mari’s mother, who’d died giving birth to the twins. But chances were, she’d been too good for him. Mama certainly was. Always had been. Suddenly, Henry realized that Livingston must have known that.
Unbidden, a seed of pity cracked open inside him.
“Just get in the truck, Livingston.” He sighed, letting go of his stepfather’s collar, his anger draining away.
For one moment, Henry thought Livingston might argue, and he simply didn’t have the fight left in him to force the matter any further. But then Livingston lowered his eyes, so full of desperate loss. Slowly he walked toward Henry’s waiting truck.
Livingston didn’t meet his stepson’s gaze when Henry shut the passenger-side door, and he didn’t speak at all on the way to the church. And that was fine by Henry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“And where do you expect me to find the money to pay for that, Alice? My God, how many times are we going to do this?”
Henry’s steps faltered as he walked into the Knightsbridge County Sheriff’s Department.
The place wasn’t fancy. In fact, Henry found it downright depressing with its faux wood paneling and glaring fluorescent lights. But he supposed it served its purpose.
Gladys, the dispatcher, had a desk immediately inside of the front door. She was currently trying her best to look occupied with anything other than the marital issues unfolding behind her.
“Good morning, Henry,” she said in a loud, cheery voice intended no doubt to let Del and Alice know they had company and to tuck their dirty laundry away.
“Morning, Gladys,” Henry said, his eyes on Alice, standing halfway across the room with her back turned to her husband. She was swiping tears away from her eyes. Del looked like he was tamping down his temper, though it was clearly taking effort to do so.
“What’s going on?” he asked Gladys in a whisper.
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