Sealed with a promise

Home > Other > Sealed with a promise > Page 34
Sealed with a promise Page 34

by Mary Margret Daughtridge


  He knew what he lo­oked li­ke.

  And she plop­ped her hands on her hips and til­ted her he­ad at him. “If you wan­ted to kill him, you’d ha­ve do­ne it by now. You’ve tur­ned down chan­ce af­ter chan­ce. It’s not that you don’t know how,” she ad­ded re­aso­nably. “I’ll bet you know ways I co­uldn’t dre­am of-ways that wo­uld in­su­re you we­re ne­ver ca­ught.”

  She sa­un­te­red up to him (yes, sa­un­te­red!) and tap­ped his chest with one sha­pely fo­re­fin­ger. “I’ll bet you co­uld do it, and do it in a way that wo­uld ma­ke yo­ur fel­low SE­ALs lo­ok li­ke frig­ging he­ro­es.”

  A cor­ner of his mo­uth kic­ked up.

  “What?”

  “You sa­id frig­ging.”

  It was her turn to smi­le. “So, I did. I’ve ac­qu­ired all sorts of ver­bal abi­li­ti­es I ne­ver tho­ught I had.”

  She wal­ked over to the tab­le and swit­c­hed on a lamp. She tur­ned to him, her arms cros­sed lo­osely un­der her bre­asts. “You told me one ti­me that you sup­por­ted yo­ur­self and yo­ur mot­her with cri­me.”

  Ca­leb nod­ded. “They say cri­me do­esn’t pay, but it pa­id bet­ter than an­y­t­hing el­se in my ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od.”

  “I sus­pect the­re are are­as of cri­me that pay very well in­de­ed.”

  “So­me.”

  “I ex­pect you knew what they we­re, and you knew the pe­op­le you’d ha­ve to ho­ok up with. You co­uld ha­ve ma­de the mo­ney you ne­eded yo­ur­self, co­uldn’t you?”

  “May­be.”

  “But you’d ha­ve had to get in­to the cri­mi­nal world a lot de­eper. You’d ha­ve be­en in at a le­vel you ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve es­ca­ped. Drugs, hu­man-traf­fic­king-prob-ably ot­her cri­mes I don’t know abo­ut, but il­le­gal bu­si­nes­ses whe­re a lot of mo­ney and a lot of hu­man suf­fe­ring is in­vol­ved. We both know how smart you are. If you had cho­sen that path, you co­uld ha­ve suc­ce­eded. But let me re­pe­at. The co­ur­se of yo­ur li­fe wo­uld ha­ve be­en set. You wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve got­ten free. That world wo­uld ha­ve ow­ned you.”

  “And yo­ur po­int is?”

  “I don’t think you ne­eded Se­na­tor Cal­ho­un to sa­ve yo­ur mot­her,” she spo­ke gently, as if to a slow stu­dent who must be ca­re­ful­ly led. “You ne­eded him to sa­ve you.”

  “No, I ne­ver ne­eded-”

  She brus­hed his obj­ec­ti­on asi­de. “You’re in the right, Ca­leb. He was the grown-up, and he sho­uld ha­ve be­en res­pon­sib­le. But that’s hin­d­sight tal­king. To find the truth we must lo­ok at the si­tu­ati­on from the per­s­pec­ti­ve you we­re de­aling with then. If he had step­ped in, you wo­uldn’t ha­ve to fe­el gu­ilty be­ca­use you drew a li­ne.”

  His he­art be­at stum­b­led, then fo­und a new rhythm. At last she was ple­ading with him as he had ex­pec­ted her to do, but it so­un­ded li­ke she was ple­ading for him.

  “The­re we­re things you wo­uldn’t do. If you had cho­sen the ro­ute of get­ting a lot of mo­ney in ways you knew how, whet­her she li­ved or di­ed, you wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve be­en free. You felt gu­ilty be­ca­use you drew a li­ne.” Te­ars fil­led her be­a­uti­ful wi­de eyes, eyes the co­lor of ho­nesty. “And she di­ed. And her de­ath set you free, fi­nal­ly, at last.”

  “How can you be so su­re of this?”

  Emmie ma­de no at­tempt to stop her te­ars. She la­ug­hed thro­ugh them, sadly. “After she di­ed, you went to Six Flags Over Ge­or­gia and ro­de rol­ler co­as­ters for a we­ek. And then you went to Char­lot­te Mo­tor Spe­ed­way. And then you went to the be­ach.”

  He co­uld tell so­met­hing abo­ut that trip re­al­ly to­uc­hed her. She tho­ught it was sig­ni­fi­cant. He wan­ted to un­der­s­tand it-if for no ot­her re­ason, so she wo­uld stop crying-but he didn’t.

  “ So?”

  “Oh, Ca­leb,” she ex­p­la­ined softly, “that’s what a kid who has be­en let out of scho­ol for sum­mer do­es.”

  Chapter 35

  She’d tal­ked eno­ugh, she tho­ught, but she still wasn’t get­ting thro­ugh. Te­ac­her that she was, she as­ked a qu­es­ti­on. “You told me you li­ked the Navy. I kept won­de­ring, what’s wrong with this pic­tu­re? You? A na­tu­ral-born ru­le bre­aker. An­ti­a­ut­ho­ri­ta­ri­an. In­de­pen­dent thin­ker ex­t­ra­or­di­na­ire. Tell me, what did you li­ke abo­ut it?”

  He shrug­ged. “Three me­als a day. So­me­body el­se bo­ught the gro­ce­ri­es and co­oked them. All I had to do was show up. Af­ter my duty was over for the day, I had ti­me to re­ad all I wan­ted. They sent me to scho­ols. They sent me to col­le­ge.”

  “And you had yo­ur fri­ends, Tim and We­ed, to te­ach you how to go on, how not get in­to too much tro­ub­le, and how to mas­sa­ge the system so it yi­el­ded what you wan­ted.

  “You ca­me to the Navy with an ex­t­ra­or­di­nary, ma­tu­re deg­ree of dis­cip­li­ne and the abi­lity to ac­cept res­pon­si­bi­lity. You’d al­re­ady had the fre­edom te­ena­gers say they long for and of­ten must re­bel to get. What the Navy ga­ve you was the fre­edom most te­ena­gers ha­ve and don’t ap­pre­ci­ate. And when you’d had eno­ugh-you’d res­ted yo­ur so­ul and yo­ur ex­t­ra­or­di­nary ca­pa­city de­man­ded ex­p­res­si­on aga­in-you mo­ved to the SE­ALs.

  “The Navy ga­ve you the spa­ce and shel­ter in which to grow up. And you did.

  “Ca­leb, I don’t bla­me yo­ur mot­her for con­fi­ning you with her over­w­hel­ming ne­ed. I know you lo­ved her. And yet, yo­ur li­fe im­p­ro­ved when she was go­ne. You ne­ed to fa­ce that. Wha­te­ver gu­ilt you fe­el abo­ut be­ing fre­ed- ac­cept it.

  “Ma­ke re­pa­ra­ti­on whe­re you can, and ask God, or wha­te­ver de­ity or Po­wer you un­der­s­tand, to for­gi­ve you for fa­iling her. And I think you’ve felt gu­ilty abo­ut that. You’re so ge­ne­ro­us, you pro­bably wis­hed over and over that you co­uld buy her pre­sents or ta­ke her pla­ces on­ce tho­se things we­re op­ti­ons for you. But if she’d be­en aro­und, they wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en op­ti­ons.

  “You tho­ught lo­oking af­ter yo­ur mot­her was yo­ur res­pon­si­bi­lity. Lo­oked at in that light, you fa­iled her, and she di­ed. Te­ague Cal­ho­un is gu­ilty of plenty, but don’t bla­me him for what you’re gu­ilty of.

  “Now, you’re trying to as­su­age yo­ur gu­ilt by ma­king Te­ague fe­el as you do. Ex­cept you’ve got the gu­ilt in the wrong pla­ce. You we­re not gu­ilty of yo­ur mot­her’s de­ath. But if you al­low yo­ur sis­ter to die wit­ho­ut trying to help her, you will be gu­ilty, and you will turn aga­inst yo­ur­self.

  “You we­re po­wer­less then. You’re not now. Let go of yo­ur gu­ilt. You don’t de­ser­ve to suf­fer the way you will. And yo­ur mot­her wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve as­ked this of you.”

  Emmie let her hands drop in­to her lap. “Well, I’ve pre­ac­hed li­ke the child of mis­si­ona­ri­es that I am, and I’ve lec­tu­red li­ke the pro­fes­sor I am.” She sto­od and sho­ok the wrin­k­les from her slacks. “You’ve lis­te­ned to me pa­ti­ently, and I think I’ve sa­id all I ha­ve to say.”

  Ca­leb hal­ted her, one hand up­ra­ised. “One mo­re thing. Why?”

  She lo­oked at him blankly. “Why what?”

  He co­ve­red his chag­rin at ne­eding to ‘fess up to his hid­den agen­da with a lit­tle shrug. “I ex­pec­ted you to talk me in­to do­na­ting my mar­row. I tho­ught you wo­uld talk abo­ut duty, kin­d­ness, or mas­te­ring the si­tu­ati­on by be­ing ge­ne­ro­us.”

  “Oh, Ca­leb.” She la­ug­hed a hel­p­less, pa­in­ful la­ugh. “You don’t ne­ed a ‘tal­king to’ abo­ut tho­se things! You co­uld gi­ve les­sons!”

  Now, he knew he had to be stra­ight. “I was ho­ping you co­uld talk me out of let­ting Vicky be my re­ven­ge. You ha­ven’t men­ti­oned her. In�
�s­te­ad you ha­ve tal­ked only abo­ut the si­tu­ati­on from my si­de. Only my si­de. Why?”

  “You’re in a very he­avy, hard pla­ce. I’m yo­ur fri­end.” Her eyes fil­led with te­ars aga­in, and she smi­led up­si­de down. “I didn’t want you to fa­ce it alo­ne. I will be yo­ur fri­end, and I’ll ca­re for you no mat­ter what. I want you to do what’s right for you. I wo­uld lo­ve to see Vicky get bet­ter. I will pray that she do­es thro­ugh wha­te­ver agency God se­lects. But this isn’t abo­ut her.”

  The mo­ment felt fra­gi­le. And yet all the con­fu­si­on he had known fell away. He lo­ved Em­mie and knew he lo­ved her as ne­ver be­fo­re. The who­le ti­me he’d used her, he tri­ed not to use her, al­t­ho­ugh it was not a dis­tin­c­ti­on he was su­re she co­uld ap­pre­ci­ate.

  He to­ok her ca­re­ful­ly by her el­bows to draw her to him, but he wo­uldn’t con­fi­ne her in his arms. He kis­sed the te­ar tracks ac­ross her che­eks, drying her sil­ken skin with his lips. The spa­ce un­der­ne­ath his he­art con­t­rac­ted so hard he co­uldn’t bre­at­he for a mi­nu­te. She’d pro­test and get all prickly an­y­ti­me he got high-han­ded with her, but she’d al­ways tur­ned her fa­ce up for his kiss with such sim­p­le trust. Just as she was do­ing now.

  The­ir bo­di­es knew how right things we­re bet­we­en them. Al­ways had. He co­uld fe­el it now.

  “Emmie,” he whis­pe­red aga­inst her lips. “Emmie, I lo­ve you. The best thing abo­ut all this is that it bro­ught me you. Now that you know all of it, I re­ali­ze you’re di­sap­po­in­ted in me. Is the­re a chan­ce for us?”

  She twis­ted her sho­ul­ders hardly at all. But he was hol­ding her lightly, so it didn’t ta­ke much to bre­ak the con­nec­ti­on. She lo­oked away for a se­cond, a far off ga­ze, as if she co­uld see a dis­tant re­ality. She step­ped back-if she wan­ted to put spa­ce bet­we­en them she wo­uld ha­ve to do it, be­ca­use he wasn’t go­ing to mo­ve away from her.

  “Oh, Ca­leb.” She to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, the way so­me­one do­es when bre­at­hing thro­ugh pa­in.

  She smi­led that up­si­de-down smi­le aga­in. A smi­le he co­uldn’t re­mem­ber se­e­ing her use be­fo­re to­day. He ho­ped he hadn’t be­en the one to put it the­re.

  “Oh, Ca­leb.” Slow and fi­nal, she sho­ok her he­ad. She sig­hed, and sa­id, in a vo­ice he’d ne­ver he­ard be­fo­re, “The­re ne­ver was an us.”

  She to­ok anot­her step back and duc­ked her he­ad li­ke she was em­bar­ras­sed. Then tur­ned and wal­ked away.

  Chapter 36

  The kids we­re in the fa­mily ro­om with the TV and the host of elec­t­ro­nic gifts from San­ta.

  The adults, ha­ving cle­aned up the sup­per dis­hes, the lit­ter of pa­per from pre­sents, and sticky fin­ger­p­rints from every sur­fa­ce in the ho­use, we­re spraw­led in va­ri­o­us sta­tes of ex­ha­us­ti­on aro­und the li­ving ro­om.

  To­night an eig­ht-fo­ot Chris­t­mas tree shed co­lo­red lights in the ro­om, whi­le only a month ago, the sa­me spa­ce had be­en pi­led with wed­ding pre­sents, a fact that had be­en re­mar­ked on aga­in and aga­in, as if they all ne­eded to se­arch for the ro­ots of the mystery of chan­ge.

  Gra­ce got up to ex­tin­gu­ish a gut­te­ring can­d­le. “Emmie, I know you’re sorry that Do-Lord’s le­ave was cut short.” That had al­so be­en re­mar­ked on a num­ber of ti­mes.

  Emmie smi­led, but didn’t com­ment. She hadn’t told an­yo­ne that the de­ci­si­on to le­ave a day early had be­en Ca­leb’s. Ac­hing num­b­ness wo­uld pro­bably be rep­la­ced by pa­in to­mor­row when the full truth that he was go­ne-and wo­uld be go­ne the next day, and the next-des­cen­ded on her. For now, she was gra­te­ful for wha­te­ver anod­y­ne was gi­ving her a pe­ri­od of gra­ce.

  “Ever­y­body co­me in he­re!” Gra­ce’s ol­dest son cal­led from the fa­mily ro­om. “They sa­id Vicky’s got a do­nor.”

  “North Ca­ro­li­na se­na­tor, Te­ague Cal­ho­un, an­no­un­ced from his ho­me in Wil­min­g­ton, whe­re he and his wi­fe are spen­ding the Chris­t­mas re­cess, that a bo­ne mar­row do­nor has be­en fo­und for his da­ug­h­ter, Vicky, who is suf­fe­ring from a ra­re form of ane­mia.”

  The pic­tu­re swit­c­hed to Cal­ho­un and Char­lot­te on the porch of the man­si­on, the hu­ge Chris­t­mas wre­ath be­hind them.

  “Do you know who the do­nor is Se­na­tor?” a he­av­y­set re­por­ter cal­led out.

  “The do­nor wis­hes to re­ma­in anon­y­mo­us, nor will they be told that Vicky is the re­ci­pi­ent-tho­ugh I ima­gi­ne they might gu­ess.” He flas­hed his fa­mo­us folksy smi­le. The­re was a mur­mur of chuc­k­les. “Char­lot­te and I wish to ex­p­ress our gra­ti­tu­de to him or her. Not only for Vicky, but for all li­ves that are ex­ten­ded and ma­de bet­ter by the ex­t­ra­or­di­nary ge­ne­ro­sity of pe­op­le wil­ling to gi­ve of them­sel­ves in this way.”

  The­re was a bit mo­re with the an­c­hor re­cap­ping the pro­ce­du­re and an in­ter­vi­ew with a doc­tor who ma­de it cle­ar that Vicky wasn’t out of the wo­ods-the­re was no tel­ling if she wo­uld sur­vi­ve the pro­ce­du­re-but at le­ast she had a chan­ce.

  In the fa­mily ro­om, chil­d­ren we­re che­ering and clap­ping-even the lit­tlest who pro­bably didn’t know what was hap­pe­ning-whi­le adults we­re em­b­ra­cing one anot­her and wi­ping away te­ars. Pa­rents sto­le lo­oks at the­ir chil­d­ren and whis­pe­red pra­yers of gra­ti­tu­de that for to­night the­ir chil­d­ren we­re sa­fe and well.

  Emmie sat on the big te­al has­sock whe­re she had lan­ded when her legs had gi­ven out be­ne­ath her.

  The­re was only one pos­sib­le do­nor.

  He had do­ne it. So­me­how, he had fo­und the ge­ne­ro­sity or the for­gi­ve­ness or the he­aling to free him­self of the past and had cho­sen to ha­ve a sis­ter-one he co­uld hold in his he­art, even if the re­la­ti­on­s­hip was ne­ver ac­k­now­led­ged. The first truly al­t­ru­is­tic pra­yers of her li­fe had be­en an­s­we­red; her tra­gic he­ro was tra­gic no lon­ger.

  “Emmie, dar­ling!” Gra­ce-Sa­rah Bea- so­me­one- ex­c­la­imed. “What is it? What’s the mat­ter?”

  The adults, the­ir fa­ces full of shock, con­cern, or em­bar­ras­sment, ac­cor­ding to the­ir tem­pe­ra­ment, we­re sta­ring at her. Em­mie re­gar­ded them in con­fu­si­on.

  “You’re sob­bing.”

  Emmie to­uc­hed her fa­ce. It was true. Her che­eks we­re slick with hot te­ars; her fin­gers ca­me away wet.

  Fa­ces swam in­to and out of her li­ne of vi­si­on. She co­uld he­ar vo­ices over the bab­ble of the TV.

  “Is it Vicky?”

  “Are you wor­ri­ed abo­ut her?”

  “She’s sad Do-Lord left.”

  “She and Do-Lord spent a lot of ti­me with them in the hos­pi­tal.”

  “Tell us what’s the mat­ter.”

  “So­me­one, get Pic­kett!” Mary Co­le snap­ped.

  In a mi­nu­te, Pic­kett was the­re, wrap­ping her in the scent of who­le­he­ar­ted com­fort, mur­mu­ring and stro­king. She to­ok Em­mie in her arms and led her from the ro­om.

  She shep­her­ded her up­s­ta­irs to “Emmie’s ro­om,” lay down with her on the can­d­le­wick bed­s­p­re­ad, and held her clo­se, even af­ter the te­ars ce­ased.

  Jax stuck his he­ad in the do­or and pan­to­mi­med “Ne­ed help?” and “I’ll ta­ke Tyler.” Pic­kett smi­led her gra­ti­tu­de over Em­mie’s sho­ul­der and con­ti­nu­ed to hold her.

  Chapter 37

  “What do you want?” he grow­led from the hos­pi­tal bed.

  Well, she hadn’t re­al­ly ex­pec­ted him to gre­et her with open arms. He was a pro­ud man. The last ti­me they met he had let him­self be vul­ne­rab­le to her. He had told her he lo­ved her and
she had wal­ked away. He wo­uldn’t easily let his gu­ard down aga­in.

  After she had col­lap­sed, over­co­me with min­g­led gri­ef and joy, she had le­aned on Pic­kett for twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs. And cri­ed. And po­ured her he­art out to Pic­kett and cri­ed so­me mo­re. She’d pic­tu­red Ca­leb in a hos­pi­tal fa­cing ne­ed­les. Big ne­ed­les thro­ugh which they wo­uld ex­t­ract the mar­row from his hip­bo­ne. He’d be un­der anes­t­he­sia, of co­ur­se, but still. He was fa­cing ne­ed­les and not even for his own go­od. For so­me­one el­se’s.

  “I want to hold yo­ur hand.”

  “Why?” he grow­led aga­in.

  He was trying to put on his hard fa­ce. It didn’t fo­ol her. She co­uld see his sto­ic, bra­ve, ge­ne­ro­us fa­ce, and the hard fa­ce just ma­de her ac­he for him. May­be so­me­day he wo­uld be ab­le to he­ar her say, be­ca­use you ne­ed me.

  “Be­ca­use you’re my fri­end,” she sa­id. “Can you ple­ase hold my hand?”

  He was ge­ne­ro­us. If so­me­one as­ked him for what he had to gi­ve, he wo­uld gi­ve it. He of­fe­red his hand.

  She put her hand in his and al­most cri­ed at the warm, ro­ugh we­ight of his fin­gers as they cur­led aro­und hers.

  She to­ok a de­ep bre­ath for co­ura­ge. With a lot of help from Pic­kett and ot­hers, she had co­me this far.

  Be­ca­use it didn’t mat­ter whe­re the ex­t­rac­ti­on was do­ne, Ca­leb had elec­ted to go on to his new as­sig­n­ment at the SE­AL tra­ining ba­se at Co­ro­na­do, Ca­li­for­nia. Ho­we­ver, Ca­leb wo­uldn’t re­turn her pho­ne calls, so she’d cal­led Lon Swa­les, the kindly se­ni­or chi­ef. He’d fo­und out the da­te of the mar­row ex­t­rac­ti­on in ti­me for her to catch a flight ac­ross the co­untry. Now it was up to her.

  “Ca­leb, I told you the­re was no ‘us.’ I was wrong. The­re is an ‘us.’ This” -she grip­ped his hand mo­re tightly-“ this is us, and to be us, all we ne­ed to do is sit to­get­her and hold one anot­her’s hand.”

 

‹ Prev