He walked into her room. “Well, I find it easier to sleep in the dark.” He reached for the lamp but stopped. “What’s that?”
The blood-stained tissue was on her nightstand. Her mind spun, searching for an explanation. “I, uh, had a nosebleed.”
“Oh.” Sam looked at her face. “Everything okay now?”
“Yeah, sure. Everything’s okay.”
Her dad kissed the top of her head and turned off the lamp. Once he had closed the door behind him, Rachel pulled her arms from under the covers and ran her finger over the moist lines on her skin. She had an odd feeling, strange but familiar, almost like the feeling that slowly washed through her when she took the pills, except her brain didn’t feel like a swollen sponge submerged in water.
She thought about the next morning, the dreaded routine, the stupid teachers, the phony people. The clothes she had picked out lay across the back of her desk chair, her favorite jeans and a grey t-shirt Aunt Erin had given her with a black graphic of a vintage camera like Rachel’s. Even though the t-shirt reminded her of her camera, it also reminded her of her aunt, and she appreciated that Aunt Erin had tried her best to help. Suddenly Rachel realized that outfit wouldn’t work. She did a mental inventory of her closet. She would wear her t-shirt from the Smokey Mountains instead. It had long sleeves.
Maggie recalled a pleasant late fall morning that had broken a cold streak, likely the last warm day before winter would bluster in to reign. Rachel, then four, had begged to go to the park for one last chance to master the monkey bars before the season’s end. She remembered a little boy chasing Rachel, playfully at first, but then he began to shove her when he would catch her. Maggie called Rachel over, and when the little boy followed, she asked him to please play nicely. But the little boy narrowed his eyes, and the next shove sent Rachel to the ground. Before she could get up, he shoved her again, this time sending her face first into the metal ladder on the slide. As Maggie rushed to Rachel, the little boy laughed. Maggie surveyed the adults scattered throughout the playground, expecting a parent to reprimand the little boy. But when he sprinted toward a row of houses nearby, she realized he had been at the park alone. Blood rushed from Rachel’s chin, and an anger so deep, so despicable, rose within Maggie as she imagined pushing the boy to the ground with all the force a protective mother could muster.
Now, as Rachel slept, the moonlight glowed through a narrow opening in the curtain, and Maggie could see the scar on her chin that took eight stitches to close. She recognized the anger that settled in her chest, the same fury that had washed over her that day in the park as she watched someone else’s child harm her daughter. But this time, as she watched her daughter’s blood surface from a self-inflicted tear in her flesh, Maggie’s anger was cloaked in shame. What kind of mother would allow her daughter to behave that way?
CHAPTER 21
Sam spent two days trailing Gary through the attic, the crawl space, and every inch of the property as he inspected the foundation, the roof, the plumbing, the wiring, the insulation. He left nothing untouched. Sam was astounded by how much he had learned already, and they hadn’t even begun to work. Now they sat at a make-shift table of plywood laid across two saw horses with a thermos of coffee and pages of notes Gary had scrawled after each inspection.
“Well, we have some challenges.” Gary tapped an ink pen against his notepad. “But overall, we’re in pretty good shape.”
Sam exhaled. “That’s good to hear. So what’s the game plan?”
“Foundation is solid; the updates the previous owner did, the HVAC and the wiring, look good. Our biggest challenge will be the plumbing. You have lead pipes that are a hundred years old and corroded. Replacing the exposed pipes in the crawl space will be pretty straight forward, but replacing the interior plumbing means getting inside the walls. Plus your plans here add two additional guest bathrooms upstairs.” Gary laid his hand on Maggie’s folder sitting on the table between them.
Sam cringed. “So, how difficult is it going to be?”
“It can get a little complicated, but I’ve done complicated a thousand times. We can do this.”
He was relieved by Gary’s confidence. They hadn’t demoed one board or driven one nail, but already he trusted Gary’s expertise.
“Plumbing is our starting point. We’ll replace it first. Otherwise, we risk water damage to any work we’d do before the plumbing.”
“Makes sense.” Sam rested his elbows on the plywood.
“So I suggest roughing in the upstairs bathrooms, and then remodeling the kitchen and main-level bath. We’ll work inside while it’s cold and through the spring rains. Then when the weather cooperates, we’ll start on the exterior.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Sam was back on the rollercoaster, riding up the hill of possibilities. He thumbed the edge of Maggie’s folder, notes in her handwriting scrawled across the cover, her dream inside. For the first time, he believed—not hoped—he might actually be able to do this.
“You know, Sam, I have to confess. I’m a little jealous.”
Sam cocked his head, curious for an explanation.
“I was this close to making an offer on this place.” Gary gestured with his thumb and forefinger.
“Really? What stopped you?”
Gary lowered his chin and pressed his lips together as if searching for an answer. “I guess it wasn’t mean to be. After we looked at the place back in the fall, Susie and I were certain this was supposed to be ours. I called the real estate agent to make an offer, but she didn’t return my call. Then the very next morning over coffee, Suze shook her head and said, ‘We can’t buy that house’ and I said, ‘I know.’ Just as sure as we knew we were supposed to buy this place, suddenly we knew we weren’t. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But I never could get the old house out of my head.”
As Sam listened, Gary’s voice sounded farther and farther away. His heart drummed in his chest and pressure filled his head. A single question circled and circled, searching for a place to land.
“Sam, are you okay? You don’t look so good, buddy.”
“I—uh—yeah.” Sam cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and tried to slow the pounding in his chest. It can’t be. It can’t. But he had to know. “Gary, do you remember when it was, when you called the agent?”
“Sure. It was right before we moved here, last September, to live closer to the grandchildren. We met the agent here—Megan or Margot—something like that, a lovely lady. We could see she really admired this property, and we couldn’t wait to tell her we wanted it. We weren’t fifteen minutes from here when we decided to call her, and, well, you know the rest of the story.”
The rest of the story? Sam’s thoughts whirled as he tried to puzzle together the possibility. Her last text to him: Cross your fingers. On my way home, came at 8:00 p.m. He read the accident report, practically memorized it, trying to understand what could have distracted Maggie, why Maggie had crossed the centerline. Estimated time of the accident, 8:16 the report had said. The evidence, his instinct, both led to the same conclusion. Sam forced himself to control the tremor in his voice. “So, this may seem like an odd question but—do you remember about what time you made that call?”
“Time?” Gary repeated as if to clarify the question. His brow lowered and he looked puzzled. “Well, let’s see. It was close to dark when we left, and we had made it back to town, so I’d say about 8:15, 8:20.”
Sam hesitated. He didn’t know how far to push, but he had to know. He reached for the file on the table and pulled it to him. As he stared at it, he swallowed and forced the words to come out. “Maggie. Was the agent’s name Maggie?”
“Why, yes, Maggie. I believe that’s right. Sweet girl. Do you know her?” Gary beamed.
Sam met Gary’s eyes. He tried, but he couldn’t return the smile. The man across from him, the man whose generosity had given Sam a new hope, was the reason he sat at this make-shift table, in this empty house, holding Maggie’s file, instead of holding Maggi
e. He didn’t know his broken heart could crumble even more. He was unsure what to say next, how much he would say, should say. He proceeded with caution, his voice a distant echo. “She was my wife.”
Gary’s smile melted. Sam watched the man across from him search his face for more information, but he didn’t offer more.
“Was?”
“There was an accident—” A wave of emotion surfaced and choked back his words.
“Sam, I am so sorry.” Gary reached across the table and gripped Sam’s arm.
Sam swallowed, forced his lungs to take in air, cleared his throat. “It was a head-on . . . last . . . fall.” He paused for Gary’s reaction, uncertain what he expected. Was he waiting for realization, for Gary to make sense of the information the two of them had pieced together, for guilt to consume him and allow Sam to finally place blame for Maggie’s death? Or did he hope Gary wouldn’t understand, that he would continue to live in oblivion, letting Sam alone carry the weight of the truth?
Gary moved his hand from Sam’s arm and placed it firmly on the folder. “This.” He patted. “This is Maggie’s. This is the house we are renovating . . . for your wife.”
Sam nodded.
Gary sat back in his chair, limp.
Quiet hung between them. Sam’s chest swelled with emotion, but it was emotion he couldn’t name. He never expected this moment to occur, but if he had, he would have anticipated fury . . . hatred . . . revenge to dominate his heart, his words. Instead, he felt what? A sense of peace maybe, for details that made Maggie’s last moments clearer? Disbelief, that the one thing Maggie wanted, a buyer for this house, was the one thing that caused her death? Sadness that the kindest man Sam had ever met had no idea of the pain he’d caused?
Or did he? Sam studied Gary’s eyes, his face, his body language, and was strangely relieved. He exhaled and wiped his sleeve across his mouth, certain Gary hadn’t figured out the rest of the story.
CHAPTER 22
Maggie was waiting in Rachel’s room when her daughter walked in, dropped her backpack next to her desk, and laid her cell phone on the nightstand.
“Coming,” Rachel called as she left to join Sam and Olivia.
Maggie stood inside the bedroom doorway and listened. Chatter drifted down the hall from the kitchen where she imagined the family seated around the island, grabbing dinner from Chinese take-out boxes. She must work quickly.
It wouldn’t be the first time Maggie risked an action that could reveal her presence. In the last few weeks her resolve to limit her abilities had waned to dangerous degrees. When Olivia awoke in the night, searching anxiously for Lambie who had fallen off the bed, Maggie gently squeezed the stuffed toy and placed it on the pillow while Olivia tossed the covers at the foot of her bed. And when Sam left their picture on the table beside her chair one evening, Maggie returned it to the nightstand while he was in the shower, fearing—and hoping—he would notice. But he didn’t. At times it had been so tempting, felt so vital, to be known by her family that only by sheer will power, which Maggie was certain could not be her own, was she able to control the desire. And then she would scold herself, knowing her motive was selfish. How could it be anything but terrifying for two girls to believe their mother was a ghost in their home? And how could Sam move through the grieving process if he knew his wife was not gone? The only one with something to gain was Maggie, and she couldn’t justify the damage her selfishness could cause. So she would renew her resolve and remain strong . . . until the next temptation surfaced.
But this time Maggie was certain her motive was genuine. She had wrestled with it, analyzed it, dissected it twenty different ways. This wasn’t about her. It was about Rachel and how her inability to cope continued to escalate to more frightening behaviors.
Satisfied her family was occupied, she grabbed Rachel’s cell phone from the nightstand. Her fingers sprinted across the keys as she began to compose a text, recalling the message she once typed on the laptop and then attempted on paper.
Rachel, I’m here. I haven’t left you. I know you still need me. I’m trying to help you, but I can’t. You have to stop hurting yourself. Talk to your dad. He loves you. I love you. You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here. Your family is here. Please, Rachel.
You are breaking my heart.
As Maggie desperately punched keys, the screen on the cell phone flashed. Not again. She panicked. But when the screen flashed back on, the text was still there. Maggie’s fingers raced. And then she noticed it, the battery icon in the top corner rapidly draining, the percentage next to it decreasing: 15, 10, 5, 0. The phone went black.
“Hang on, Dad.”
Rachel’s voice entered the room seconds before she did. Maggie shoved the cell phone toward the nightstand. Rachel walked in just in time to see the phone fall from the edge and tumble to the carpet below. She stopped. Slowly she walked to the phone and stared at it. Then she looked at the nightstand where the phone should have been. Finally, she bent down, picked it up, and tapped the black screen. She pushed the button to power up the phone and waited. When the screen appeared, she seemed satisfied, unsuspecting, and left the room.
Maggie should have been relieved Rachel hadn’t stepped in a second sooner, but she wasn’t. She was exasperated. She was certain this time it would work. This time she would get a message to her daughter. This time she would save Rachel.
CHAPTER 23
Rachel wrapped her wet hair in a towel, tied her robe tighter around her waist, and opened the bathroom door. Olivia’s giggles drifted down the hall from her dad’s bedroom. She listened to the carefree sounds of her little sister, wishing she could give Olivia the nine years that separated them. Then maybe she, too, could disappear into the oblivion of a child. She wanted to giggle again, to laugh, to feel it, really feel it. To not feel this—this heaviness invading her, replacing the pain that stabbed her inside with every breath, every move, every thought of her mom. It will take time, people told her. She didn’t understand then. She thought they meant it would take time for her to forget, but she didn’t want to forget. Now she realized they meant it would take time for the pain to ease, but no one told her it would transform into a weight that is physical and ever present. Time. She counted in her head. Six months. It seemed like only yesterday—and it seemed like a lifetime ago.
“What are you guys doing?” Rachel stood in the doorway while her dad and Olivia laid on the bed looking at an iPad. “Isn’t it past her bedtime? It’s a school night.”
“We’re gonna show Mommy some pictures. Aren’t we, Daddy?”
“Um, uh-huh.”
Rachel caught a sheepish glance from her dad.
“Pictures of what? Why do you have Mom’s iPad?”
“Daddy used it to take pictures of the house. We’re going to show Mommy how Daddy fixed it.”
“Dad, seriously?” Rachel shoulders dropped. She was so tired of this.
“Oh, don’t be a drag. Come over here and look at these pictures with us.” Sam patted the space beside him.
Rachel remained in the doorway a moment, fighting her curiosity. Then she sauntered toward the bed, careful not to let her interest betray her. Her dad moved over, and as she sat beside him, she sensed his excitement.
“Okay, let’s get to the beginning.” He quickly scrolled through the pictures. “But first, Rachel, I want you to remember what the house was like the last time you saw it. Now we’ve only been working about eight weeks, so there’s still a lot to do, but just wait ’til you see what your old dad has accomplished. Ready?” His smile was so big, Rachel almost couldn’t resist smiling back.
“Here are the bathrooms we put in upstairs. Remember the bedroom that was here? We divided it in two, ran some plumbing, and voila.”
“It’s only a bunch of pipes and wood now, right?” Olivia leaned forward to see Rachel. “But Daddy will make it more better, won’t you?”
“Yep. Your mom wanted claw foot tubs, tile, and custom vanities. The paint she ch
ose for the bathrooms is ‘Lavender Dust.’ They will be the prettiest bathrooms you’ve ever seen. What do you think?”
Although the work was still rough, Rachel could fill in the blanks from the layout she had seen in her mom’s notes. “Nice.” She nodded, and she meant it.
Her dad scrolled to the next picture. “Here’s where we’ve spent most of our time.”
Rachel hardly recognized the kitchen. The remodel looked almost complete—new windows, paint, cabinets—except the spaces left for appliances, like gaping holes in a first grader’s smile. “Wow. You really did this?”
“What? Don’t you know your dad has some serious carpentry skills?” Sam grinned, but his fake confidence didn’t fool her.
“Uh, that Gary guy you talk about has the skills. All you have are Mom’s designs—and maybe a hammer.” Rachel rolled her eyes, surprised at how important her approval seemed to her dad. He pushed his elbow into her side, and she caught herself just before tumbling off the bed. “Dad!”
He feigned innocence and continued scrolling from one picture to the next. Rachel had leafed through her mom’s plans a million times, trying to envision the house as her mom had. Now, she could see it coming into view, her mom’s signature reviving the rooms.
“Well, what do you think?” He lowered the iPad.
“I think you are making a good house, Daddy.” Olivia patted his stomach.
Rachel’s awe was slowly replaced by sadness. She didn’t want to say what she thought, to let honesty give words to the ache. But her dad was waiting for her approval, so she forced a whisper through the tightness in her throat. “I wish Mom could see it.”
Her dad’s arm wrapped around her, and instead of resisting, she allowed him to pull her close. “Me, too.” His words were warm on her hair.
“But she can.” Olivia sat up and scolded them both. “She sees the pictures.”
It didn’t matter how much time passed, rage still surged through Rachel each time her sister talked as if their mom were present. But she wasn’t prepared for her dad’s response.
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