Take and Give

by Amanda G. Stevens

  The heat inside Lee, fueling the words, sputtered a final time and went out. “I would never use you.”

  “Then stop throwing pill bottles and looking at me like I’m dying.”

  “You were.”

  “Stop blaming God for the things people choose.”

  Lee’s insides hollowed. Nothing left.

  His body folded down into the wheelchair. “Will said he’d come get me.”

  She couldn’t move.

  “You can go,” he said, as if his first dismissal hadn’t been clear.

  She nodded. She set off away from him, toward the exit. When she reached the gate outside, sporadic traffic sounds whirring past the tree line, she veered left into the woods.

  The trees grew denser here, untrimmed. No lanterns, no wood chips. Fireflies winked around her, some near, most distant. In her hollowness, Marcus’s words ricocheted and resounded. His grip on his God had been strengthened. It didn’t make sense.

  And how could such a rift grow between them that he would permit a stranger to see his weakness before he let her help him?

  You attacked him.

  The prone reverence. The sacrifice of pain. The halting, verbal exposure of his heart.

  She had charged roughshod over all of it and then mocked it, her blood boiling so high she couldn’t see Marcus at all and didn’t care to. Lee sank to her knees among the old wood and green leaves. Her stomach balled up.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  A firefly winked beside her hand. The leaves high over her head whispered back. She shivered. The park was growing colder. She should have left Marcus her jacket, at least to cover his chest. But she hadn’t thought of that, either.

  “Was it emotion?” She gripped her shoulders with the opposite hands. “He said I’m angry.”

  Was she angry?

  A roaring in her ears and a wash of red over her vision rocked her forward. “I wound him. Always him, the deepest.”

  Perhaps the dark confinement had taught him not only to hold more tightly to his God but also to hold less tightly to her. Perhaps she had, minutes ago, ended ten years of friendship without seeing it. And she could not blame him. She could only blame herself.

  “Stop blaming God for the things people choose.”

  “I won’t,” she whispered. “I’ll blame You endlessly. I’ll hold You responsible.”

  For all the sins of the world.

  “Yes.” She pushed to her feet and leaned her head back. “You stand by. You do nothing.”

  Except walk onto the stage and pay for the damages.

  “It does not absolve You.”

  No, Lee, it absolves you.

  Her shoulders prickled. That was only a thought of her own mind. Nothing more. But a shiver was racing along her spine. She backed against a tree.

  “You …”

  It was not God Who wounded Marcus just now. Her own blind rage had done that. But consistently, logically, she could not accept the guilt of one action without accepting …

  All of it. She ducked her head. If God was not responsible for the sins of the world … if she could not hold court over God and morally judge Him … and the image of that flashed in her head with such clear foolishness: she, Lee Vaughn, hitting a gavel and shouting out a sentence and still calling Him God, still claiming His omnipotence though He stood before her acquiescent to her ruling.

  She pushed away from the tree. “You should have …”

  The words died in her throat. She could not make decrees that bound Him.

  So His decrees bound her.

  Lee locked her knees. Drowning. Guilty. And God, everywhere, inescapable, pure authority like white fire.

  Her knees gave out. Her arms covered her head. I see You. And I can’t bear it. Lee huddled but couldn’t be small enough. He saw her, too. She shook, hands tight against her sick stomach.

  “Talk to God.”

  I can’t, Heath.

  But something else prodded her, too. Speak.

  “I am guilty. Of too many things.”

  It wasn’t enough. She choked. She curled up until her forehead touched the grass. She held her barren belly.

  “I killed my daughter.”

  Tears.

  “She thrashed and stopped. She died inside me because I chose her death.”

  The tears fell into the grass. She lifted herself a few inches from the ground, and more tears fell onto her knees.

  Her stomach settled as the tears drained out of her. She sat up and leaned against the tree. Bark pressed into her spine. Around her, fireflies danced, crickets resumed their music, and a chilling wind gusted like a long-pent breath, then died back down.

  “If …” She strained for a deep breath. “If I asked for absolution … would You give it to me?”

  Of course, Marcus and Violet and Heath—everyone—would tell her to ask. Would tell her she’d never be denied. But none of them knew the selfishness that curled in the deepest pit of her. None of them knew that her hand had willingly signed for her baby’s death. None of them knew how she’d railed at God, when she spoke to Him at all, over the last twelve years. And for the last four months.

  “I don’t see how You could possibly pardon me at this juncture.”

  Lee strained to hear, to sense, but nothing prodded inside her. The fire of Him had receded. Was that her answer?

  “It’s only reasonable, I see that.” But a desolate pain wormed into her chest. “I suppose this ends our … encounter.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t fill her lungs. Her eyes burned. For her own condemnation? She hardly deserved tears. She forced the deep breath and pushed to her feet. She would return to the church. To Marcus. If he would allow it.

  43

  Violet didn’t ask much, only a quick “Well?”

  Austin wanted to commend her restraint. Not blurting his life story to this group of people—definite progress for her. He flashed a thumbs-up, and she smiled.

  About a dozen sojourners had gathered in a lounge off the gym, walls painted the clashing colors of toffee and mustard, to chat or play foosball or blackjack. The leather couches were set up around rustic wooden tables, exuding a coffee-shop aura. One was spread with an oversized checkerboard. On the other sat, no kidding, two leather-bound books. Gilded words on each spine claimed, Holy Bible.

  “I wonder how old those are,” Violet had whispered when she first noticed them. “The one’s kind of worn out, but the other one looks newer than mine. Marcus’s. Whosever.”

  She had inherited Marcus’s Bible? They needed a long talk involving full faith disclosure. Though Violet wouldn’t guess that, given his nonresponse to the topic so far.

  And anyway, why do you care?

  Because he was her protection.

  Except he watched her introduce herself to people of all ages, guys and girls, warming them with her smile, with the care in her eyes, and … really, the protection detail was obsolete now.

  He joined a game of foosball instead of thinking about that.

  Half an hour later, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  “Score!” yelled his teammate, whose name he hadn’t bothered to ask. “Good reflexes, man.”

  “Yup.” Austin spun the goalie rod. “I’m out.”

  “We’ve got to finish crushing these guys.”

  Really? It was foosball. “Might be back.”

  But this was probably Esther, so he might be an hour. She still owed him a catching-up, and Esther didn’t abbreviate stories. He hurried to accept the call before it went to voicemail. He wandered toward the lounge doors. Too much noise in here. “Hey, middle sis.”

  “Austin?”

  “Livvy? You’d better not let Esther catch you on—”

  Her breathing shuddered.

  Austin’s feet froze in the mi
ddle of the room. His pulse jumped into overdrive. “Liv, what’s wrong?”

  “D-D-Daddy said—” She sobbed.

  “Livvy.” His hands were shaking already. Adrenaline overload. Just from hearing Olivia say that word. “What did he do?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Olivia! What did he do?”

  Quiet crying.

  Hand on his arm. He jolted and spun, ready for defense. Violet’s eyes widened. The lounge had hushed. The foosball game had stopped. Austin fought to process both, the people around him and the people on the other end of the phone call—far away, helpless. The effort curled his free hand into a fist.

  He gulped in a breath. The ugly walls seemed to be shrinking while Olivia cried.

  “Baby, put Esther on the phone.”

  “Esther …” Another sob.

  Austin couldn’t get his breath. Violet took his hand and pulled him to the door, and his legs followed her while he fought images he couldn’t yet know were true. He had to have the facts, not his imagination.

  Violet pushed him to a corner, near the swinging doors. More privacy. No one would hear him now unless they stood right here, and he’d see them coming.

  “Your sisters?” she whispered.

  Somehow, he nodded.

  “I’ll be over there,” Violet whispered and pointed at the couches. “I’m going to pray.”

  Right, because in the course of their journey, he’d told her things. She knew what could have happened. Well, she could pray if she wanted to. In case it would help. He shut his eyes and took stock of his body while Olivia’s weeping pushed his heartbeat higher. Dry mouth, shaking hands, hot face. Get a grip, man.

  “Olivia, I need you to talk. Say something.”

  “Esther’s going to the h-hospital, but it was an accident.”

  He was going to be sick. “Why is she going to the hospital?”

  “Daddy—”

  The phone fell. Olivia shrieked. A low, chugging breath came over the line, and Austin cringed against the wall like a seven-year-old who couldn’t move fast enough to avoid—

  “Hello, son.”

  “What’s going on over there, Vince?”

  Dad gave a chuckle, and Austin fought back the hyperventilating. “Did you know you’ve been calling me that since you were about nine years old?”

  The year I decided not to be your son anymore. “What’s going on?”

  “Girl fell and hurt her arm.”

  Arm. Not head, not spine, not internal organs—Austin drew in a bit more air. “And how did that happen? The falling, I mean.”

  “Who do you think you are, anyway, Mr. Big Con-Cop Man? Questioning how I raise my girls.”

  “Vince, you tell me what happened or I swear I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Grab a flight home to beat on your old man? Oh yeah, I know you’re out of the state, kid. The girls let it slip.”

  “Is that why you finally decided to beat them into shape? Because I can’t drive over and shoot you in the face?”

  “Mr. Big and Brave, Mr. I’ve Got a Gun, Mr. Only People I Can Arrest Are Religious Fanatics. News for you, boy, I ain’t religious.”

  Austin strangled his phone and pressed his free hand into the wall, flat, palm sweating on the mustard-colored paint. If he let the fingers curl, he’d start beating holes in the drywall. “Yes, I will grab a flight. And I’ll decide on the way whether I’m going to plant a Bible in your house and arrest you, or whether I’m going to pin my badge to my chest and walk in and shoot you, and report that you assaulted a Constabulary officer. See, Vince, I have so many options.”

  The pause might be rattled, a little, anyway. But then Dad’s chugging laugh dug into Austin’s head. “Sure, come on over. I’ll be ready for you.”

  Stop antagonizing. Stop meeting him there. Or Dad would hang the phone up and run the kitchen faucet over it. Or just throw it into a wall. Austin breathed, keeping it silent.

  “Vince, you need to let Olivia talk to me.”

  “Oh, I need to, huh?”

  His face pulled into a grimace. “May I speak with Olivia, please?”

  A few bumping noises were followed by Olivia’s sniffling. “Hi.”

  “Livvy, he’s standing right next to you, isn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Austin kept his eyes closed and lowered his head to his arm, his hand still glued to the wall as if he could push it over. “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. If you think—not if you’re sure, but if you think he had anything to do with this, I want you to say, ‘We’re perfectly fine.’ And if you know he didn’t, one-hundred percent, say, ‘We’re all clear.’”

  Her breath shook. “We’re all clear.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You sound scared, Livvy. Are you?”

  “Because—because Esther was screaming. Because the bone popped out of her skin.”

  Nausea welled up. Tough Esther, or trying hard to be, cradling her arm and bleeding. “Did she fall?”

  “Off the garage roof.”

  “Why was she up there?”

  Silence.

  “Liv, why was Esther on the roof?”

  A shriek, a scuffle. “Daddy, wait—”

  The call ended.

  He redialed. The phone rang five times before picking up. “It’s Esther D, hey, don’t leave a message ’cause I don’t listen to them, but when I—”

  He ended the call. Opened his eyes, drew his arm back to hurl the phone, and went still.

  A middle-aged woman stood about ten feet from him. Short, brunette, Capri jeans and a purple T-shirt. Staring. She’d had dinner at their table tonight, the one who seemed to have met Marcus before. Behind her, Violet sat alone on a couch apart from the group, head bowed, hands folded on her lap. Most of the others still talked amongst themselves, but one or two were glancing from her to Austin, trying to figure out what had caught her attention.

  He probably looked like a freaked-out wuss in front of all these people. He pocketed his phone and cursed his trembling hands.

  “Was that your family?” the woman said.

  Austin nodded.

  Violet glanced up, saw he was off the phone, and darted over. “Are they okay?”

  “Esther broke her arm.”

  Violet clenched her hands. “Oh, no.”

  “Liv said it wasn’t … what I thought.” But his left wrist gave a phantom ache halfway to his elbow. His hadn’t been a—what were they called, compound fracture?—but a broken bone was a broken bone.

  “Austin.” Violet came closer but didn’t touch him, and that observation ached too. “Are you okay?”

  “I … I have to go home.”

  He hadn’t known until now. But yes. He had to get them out of that house once and for all, and if Mom wouldn’t help him, he’d do it himself.

  “Austin.”

  “I have to.”

  “That might not be a bad idea.”

  Both he and Violet jolted at the voice over her shoulder. The woman was still standing here, listening to their every word.

  “Um, Becca,” Violet said, “this is kind of private.”

  Becca shrugged, her focus on Austin. “Not if he’s really a con-cop.”

  The regionalism and lack of twang said she was at least from the Midwest. Maybe Michigan. Austin nodded. Nothing else to do.

  “Were you going to tell anyone?” Becca shifted her weight back on her heels.

  “I did.”

  “Good, then it’s public knowledge.” She marched over to the group at the couches, two of whom had started a checkers game. “Listen up, people. This is important.”

  Violet barreled after her. “Wait.”

  The foosball guys wandered over from the
game table. The blackjack players abandoned their cards. Becca had garnered the whole room’s attention.

  “You can’t do this.” Violet’s voice caught on the threat of tears.

  Sure, she could. Should, in fact. But Austin wouldn’t let her. He sidestepped around Becca and faced them all. A moment hung while they watched them, mostly confused faces, a few gathering suspicion, caution. In a minute, they’d all look like that. Best case scenario.

  Worst … He’d be fleeing.

  “In Michigan, last year, I earned my Bachelor’s degree in sociology and minored in philosophy. I don’t know how the system works, but the Constabulary—”

  Quiet intakes of breath. Collective leaning back. Confusion morphing to more hostile expressions. Was he watching a mob form, before they knew what they were about to become?

  “—at least in Michigan, they recruit students who have the academic background they want. And they recruited me.”

  He waited for … well, anything. But the moment wore on while they all sat, frozen.

  Violet moved to his side and hooked both her arms around one of his, as if the group might rise up and drag him off somewhere. “We wouldn’t have made it here without Austin. He’s not part of the Constabulary anymore.”

  “Is that true?” asked an older man. “You … quit? Can you quit the Stab?”

  “As far as I know, you can.” Austin sighed. “I didn’t, though. Not officially.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Violet turned to him. “You left, and you’ll never go back to your old job.”

  Would he? Another sigh bled from him. He pushed a hand through his hair, and if none of the rest of them understood his silence, Violet did. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

  “The point is, I have no jurisdiction here. I’m not a threat to you.”

  “That’s not the point,” Becca said.

  He couldn’t deal with this now. His phone was still and silent against his thigh. Esther had possibly made it to the hospital by now. She’d need surgery to put the bone back. What if they couldn’t fix it? And Olivia, terrified by the scream and the blood. Had they called an ambulance, or had Mom driven Esther and left Livvy home with …?