The Ones We Trust

by Kimberly Belle

  The thing is, I know how to apologize for Jean and Ricky. I even know how to apologize for Victoria. But what I can’t seem to come up with, what I can’t seem to think of one single, miserable word for, is how to express my shame at believing Dad could be one of the bad guys. I’m sorry just isn’t going to cut it. I open my mouth to say...what, I don’t know, when he holds up a palm.

  “Hold that thought, Abigail. I need to say something to you first.” He motions to one of the cracked leather club chairs behind me, and I sink into it. “Do you remember that girl you used to ride the bus to school with?”

  It takes me a beat or two to switch gears, and then another few to come up with her name; the last time I rode the school bus on a regular basis was middle school. “Katie Richardson,” I tell him after a moment.

  “That’s her. I ran into her a few weeks ago at the grocery store. You wouldn’t recognize her. She’s grown into a beautiful woman. Tall, long legs, great smile. Quite the looker.”

  A smile sneaks up my face at his old-man description, as well as the knowledge that the laws of karma really do apply in Katie’s case. Back when I knew her, she was, to put it politely, extremely unfortunate-looking. Pudgy and short, thick glasses, the world’s worst fashion sense. But she was sweet, despite the torture the girls at school inflicted on her, and she had a wicked sense of humor. I liked her. She moved away the summer before seventh grade, and despite our tearful goodbye and the best of intentions, the two of us lost touch. I always wondered what became of her.

  “She told me to tell you hi. She also told me to tell you she still owes you one, said you would know why.” He pauses to regard me. “Do you?”

  Uh, yeah. Dad’s talking about the time in sixth grade Katie and I got caught playing hooky. We were both grounded for a month, even though our reason was, to us at least, perfectly valid.

  A couple of girls at school who were just as evil as they were popular concocted a plan to fill her locker with a thousand pink, scented tampons. I got wind of it the afternoon before, when I overheard them giggling about how purple her face would turn when the avalanche of feminine products she did not yet need came tumbling to the ground. Too bad they forgot to check the stalls for anyone who might put a dent in their scheming.

  I warned Katie the very next morning. When the bus dropped us off at school, the herd of kids turned right and Katie and I veered left, hoofing it a mile and a half to the mall. We spent the day having perfume fights, trying on the biggest bras we could find and eating ice cream for lunch. We timed it just right, too, arriving at our homes at exactly the time the bus would have returned us there. And we would have gotten away with it, were it not for a nosy school nurse who called our mothers to see how we were feeling.

  So, yes. Of course I remember.

  “I couldn’t understand at the time why you got so worked up about it. You were in sixth grade, for Pete’s sake. How bad could it possibly be?”

  “Pretty bad.” I make a face. “Especially for Katie.”

  “Yes, well, my point is, knowledge is a powerful thing. You used your knowledge that day to do good, and for someone who needed a hand. Do you remember what you said when your mother and I sat you down that night?”

  I try to shake loose the memory, but the only thing I can come up with is the injustice I felt at being punished for helping a friend. “Please, don’t ground me?”

  He smiles, just a whisper of a curve to his mouth, but not enough to detract from the point he’s trying to drive home. “No, and we grounded you, all right. But I’ll never forget the words you said to me that night. You said we could punish you all we wanted, but in your heart you knew what you did for that girl was the right thing.”

  If this were the movies, now would be the moment when the music swells, when the cameras pan out, when the heroine turns to one of them and busts through the third wall. That’s what my father’s words just did, busted through my internal third wall. I am still for a long moment, slowing my thoughts and listening to my own inner heroine tell the audience she gets it. She understands. Her father was punished for doing the right thing, too.

  “You leaked the memo, didn’t you?”

  Dad’s brows rise up his forehead, but he doesn’t deny it.

  “Of course you did. You had to. Gabe and I were getting too close. You were trying to distract us from Ricky.”

  Dad sighs and takes off his glasses, pinching at the two pink footprints they leave on the bridge of his nose. “It was more than that, sugar. Maybe one day I’ll be able to talk more freely about it, but for now my reasons are still classified.”

  And that’s when the full extent of my father’s fall hits home. Dad knew exactly what he was doing all along. When he leaked that memo, he knew it would go public. In fact, he probably even predicted Victoria and I would be the ones to do it. Whether out of guilt or morality or for penance, my father sacrificed his reputation for Zach Armstrong’s family.

  I look across the desk at my father, at the familiarity of the lines fanning out from his hazel eyes, the dark stubble that hugs his jaw, the salt-and-pepper hair that never seems to need a cut. The sight of it breaks my heart just a little, but it also opens it up a little, too.

  “Oh, Daddy...” I whisper. My tears mount without warning, as they’ve been doing ever since Portsmouth. “I’m so sorry. For everything. If I could go back and do it all over again, I’d do pretty much everything different.”

  “I appreciate that, darlin’.” He smiles, and I can read the absolution all over his face. “I’m sorry, too. I should have been...I don’t know, a little more specific in my warnings. I shouldn’t have treated you like one of my subordinates. The only thing I won’t apologize for is having you tailed. I hope you know it was for your own protection.”

  I grow an inch or two on the club chair. “Wait a minute. So Members Only guy was yours?”

  “That son of a bitch who came after you and Rose?” Anger flickers over his expression, followed closely by something else, something I can’t quite read. “Hell, no. You won’t be seeing him anytime soon, I can guarantee you that much. Mine was a she, and she took out your tail long before you took off running.”

  “So who chased me, then?”

  “Her name’s Helen, and she says you could beat a Kenyan in a marathon. Even with Rose hanging around your neck, Helen could barely keep up. And by the way, should you ever feel the need to confess anything about that night to your brother, I will deny every word.”

  “What night?”

  Dad smiles. “That’s my girl.” He leans back in his chair and regards me over the rim of his glasses. “Now, do you want to tell me what happened with Gabe?”

  “It’s a really long story.”

  “Then you better get comfortable.”

  I kick off my shoes, swing my feet under me on the chair and start at the very beginning, with running into Gabe that sunny Tuesday afternoon at Handyman, now coming up on two months ago. I tell him about the mysterious package a few days later on my doorstep, about my cocktails with Victoria, about my discovery of Ricky on the contractor casualty website and the awful story Gabe and I spun for his sister, Graciela. I tell him about the IHOP and the hotel, the hole Gabe punched in the wall, the long, silent drive to Eagle Rock, about Nick’s cabin, the paintings, the hallucinations and flashbacks.

  When I get to the part where Nick pointed a gun first at Gabe’s chest, then up his own chin, Dad picks up the phone. He uses his general’s voice, and the poor sucker on the other end is clearly someone trained to take orders, because he doesn’t talk much and Dad’s instructions don’t take longer than a minute or two. Even from the half I hear, the gist is clear. There’s a spot for Nick at Salem VA Medical Center, one of the best facilities around for veterans with PTSD.

  And then Dad looks back at me, and his eyes go kind. “Now I need you to get Gabe on
the line for me, darlin’.”

  I wriggle my phone from my pocket and dial the number. Gabe’s voice, when he picks up two rings later, is flat and emotionless, and it brushes against my bruised, battered heart.

  “Hey,” he says and nothing else. Just hey.

  I keep my words just as short and to the point.

  “My father wants to talk to you,” I say, then pass him the phone.

  * * *

  Mom’s pulling a pan of pumpkin bread from the oven when I walk back into the kitchen. She holds it up with a grin, tilting it so I can see its perfectly browned top. “Pull up a chair, dear.”

  The bread’s scent curls around me like a warm blanket, assaulting me with a heady mixture of nostalgia and regret. The visual of Gabe reaching across Starbucks cups and wrappers and taking my hand in his flashes behind my eyeballs, and the spicy-sweet smell of Mom’s bread turns sour in my stomach. Suddenly, all I want is a long, hard cry in the privacy of my own bed.

  “Actually, can we do this another time? I haven’t showered or slept in what feels like a week, and I’m—”

  “Sit down, Abigail,” she says in that don’t-argue-with-me voice I remember from my high school days.

  I pull out a bar stool and sit down.

  Once she’s satisfied I’m settled in to stay, she takes her time removing the bread from the pan, humming as she lays it on a rectangular platter and dusts it with powdered sugar. Finally, when everything is just so, she plates two generous slices and passes one to me. And then she rounds the island and climbs onto the bar stool next to me.

  “Now that you’ve mended fences with your father, I thought you and I could have a little chat of our own.”

  “Okay.” The word comes out like silly putty, long and stretched thin. The best thing to do when Mom’s on one of her missions is hold on and hope for the best. I break a corner off my bread, pop it in my mouth and grab on to the counter with both hands. “What about?”

  “Well, why don’t we start with why you look so pitiful and lovesick, and then I’ll fill you in on all the things your father couldn’t say.”

  Her words zap me like a taser, sticking my breath in my lungs and melting my backside to the stool. Not so much that she knows about me and Gabe; Mom always could read my emotions as she did one of her cookbooks—easily and with practiced skill. I’m more surprised she knows what Dad and I had to discuss. What happened to top secret and need-to-know? To duty, honor, country? Why would he tell his wife and not his daughter, when I was the one peeling back the lid of the box, spilling out the secrets, releasing all the evils?

  “Were you listening at the door or something?”

  Mom laughs as if I told a joke, even though I’m beginning to suspect the joke’s on me. “Thirty-seven years I’ve been married to that man, and I’ve been finishing his sentences for longer than that. I don’t have to listen at the door to know what he’s in there telling you, and what he’s holding back. Now tell me about Gabe, dear.”

  “It’s a pretty depressing story, actually.” I inch my plate toward the center of the counter, try to staunch my tears by looking up at the ceiling. When it doesn’t work, Mom passes me a paper napkin. “A classic tragedy.”

  She rests a hand on my arm and regards me. “Gabe has a lot going on. A lot of pressures.”

  I nod, catching her meaning immediately. Gabe is the strongest man I know, yet he carries the heaviest imaginable burden to bear. And I’m the one who led him to it.

  I think of all the things I should have done in that hotel room. Slip the blog entry under the covers, bury it under the pillows, flush it down the toilet and sweep it into oblivion. Anything but allow him to take it from my hands. Now, thanks to me, Gabe is guarding a secret no brother should ever have to keep. I did that to him.

  “Oh, sweetie...” she says, wrapping her palm around mine, looking at me as if she understands, and if so, she’s the only one. I’m still trying to wrap my head around how Gabe can say such beautiful words to me one moment, then make such horrible accusations the next.

  “Maybe it’s better this way,” I say, the tears flowing freely now. “I mean, I know what I want of Gabe, but I’m not sure it’s anywhere near the neighborhood of what he’s able to give me.” I lift a shoulder, trying not to look completely pitiful. “Too much has happened for him this past year.”

  “Give him some time, Abigail. He’s got a lot to work through. Big, life-changing issues. He’s going to have to work through them before he can move forward with you or anyone else.” She pauses to give me a kind smile. “He’ll come around.”

  I want to tell her she is being overly optimistic. That his face, the way he ducked his head and avoided my eyes this morning in Eagle Rock, made things more than clear. That I, myself, betrayer of trust and bearer of bad news, am one of the issues Gabe must work through. That no amount of space or time could heal the hole learning the truth must have ripped through his heart. I want to tell her all of this, but I don’t, mostly because I so profoundly, desperately, painfully want to believe her.

  Mom pats my arm as if she understands. “My turn?”

  I nod and give her a shaky laugh. “Please, distract me.”

  “Okay. Your uncle Chris is a sneaky son of a bitch and a pompous ass. How’s that for distraction?”

  Considering the fact that Mom never cusses, pretty damn effective. My tears dry up with the shock of it. “Are you referring to the tail Chris put on me? The one who came after me and Rose?”

  It’s not a long stretch to make. When my father refused to claim Members Only man as his tail, that left just one other general he could belong to.

  Mom nods. “Yes, and that phone call from you and Rose almost sent your father over the edge. But I’m also talking about the transcript. Both things had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with Chris and your father. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  I think about her words for a beat or two, but it doesn’t take much longer for the meaning to drop. “So by getting me involved, Chris was sending Dad a message?”

  “Bingo. Your father still has a lot of important people’s ears, and Chris wanted him to back off, to let him handle the Armstrongs. From the start, Chris has been the motor behind this whole mess. I swear, that man would still be running all over town, hawking Zach’s story as his own personal PR campaign if your father hadn’t stopped him. That memo of his was effective in stopping Chris, but it came with a whole host of unintended consequences.”

  “Like early retirement?” I think of how it came up out of nowhere, how he explained it away with a wish to go on trips he never took, how ever since he whiles his days away by moving bushes around the backyard.

  “Like early retirement,” Mom confirms. “He didn’t have much of a choice after that memo.”

  An overwhelming sadness surges in my chest. My father didn’t just sacrifice his reputation for Zach Armstrong, he sacrificed the career he loved, and walked away from the organization he’d spent his entire life serving.

  Talk about duty, honor, country.

  “The truth was supposed to be the end,” I say, reaching for my napkin to staunch a fresh wave of tears. “It was supposed to give everybody closure.”

  Mom sighs, loud and long. “Sweetheart, that’s what makes a tragedy a tragedy. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, only heartbreak. The only thing you can do once the ground stops shaking and the waters recede is try to save whoever’s left.”

  27

  The next few days are a blur. I barely eat, I sleep in fits and starts, I lose all sense of time. I cry until I think I have no more tears to shed, and then I cry some more. I stare at my phone, which lights up often but with all the wrong numbers. The digits on my voice mail and text icons climb well into the forties. I ignore all of them.

  But I do finish the bathroom.<
br />
  I work like a woman possessed, grouting the tile, installing the vanity, cutting and fitting the moldings. I seal, I sand, I paint. I hang towel holders and toilet roll holders and mirrors, put down candles and soaps, mop and scrub and polish until fatigue burns like cinders in every inch of my body. And then I peel off my filthy clothes and stand under the showerhead for what feels like a week, until my skin is wrinkled and red, until the water turns lukewarm, then cool, then frigid, until my teeth are chattering hard enough to chip a filling.

  A door slams, and Mandy’s voice floats up the stairs. “Abigail?”

  I shut off the water, wrap my shivering body in a towel. “Up here.”

  Her heels make dull thwacks on the hallway hardwoods, pausing every now and then to check a room, then finally, stepping through the bathroom door. She’s still in her coat, still clutching the stack of mail she must have pulled from my mailbox, a good week’s worth of flyers and catalogs and envelopes, to her chest.

  She takes me in, shivering and wet and dripping onto my brand-new bath mat. “You do know I called you, like, a thousand times, right?”

  I nod.

  “And that I left increasingly frantic voice mails, the last of which saying I was on the way to the police station to file a missing-persons report?”

  I duck my chin into the terry-cloth towel.

  “You didn’t listen to them. Of course you didn’t.” She sighs, tossing the mail onto the sink. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She knows, of course, about Gabe and me, about my growing feelings for him, about how we found Ricky and were in touch with Graciela. I told her everything, all the way up to the morning that Gabe and I motored down to Portsmouth. The rest—what happened with Ricky, with Nick and Zach—is not my secret to tell.

  I shake my head.

  She shrugs as if she couldn’t care either way, but I can tell it’s a front. Mandy believes in doing things, fixing things, changing things. Whatever things I don’t tell her, she can’t help me mend. She doesn’t like it, but she lets it go.