Loving Wilder

by Leigh Tudor

  And emotional. Even for a typically stoic individual, who once gave a sex trafficker something to cry about.

  Nothing a strategically placed slash of a KA-BAR knife couldn’t take care of.

  She patted him on the hand trying to get a hold of herself. “I promise to tell you everything after seeing the doctor. Now, you have to go to work and I have to check on Becky.”

  “I’m calling Alec and telling him I need to stay home today to take care of you.”

  Just hearing his name caused more tears to catapult from her already over-burdened eyes. “No, please don’t tell him I’m not feeling well. He... he tends to worry too much. Promise me you won’t tell him. I’m fine, really. Look, I’m eating the toast.” She choked down another bite.

  “Please go to work. I’m fine.”

  Jimbo sighed and stood, hesitantly lifting the keys from the large catch-all bowl on the kitchen counter.

  “You’ll call me if you need anything?”

  “Of course,” she said, wiping her eyes on her paper napkin and managing a smile. She waved him toward the door. “Go on. You don’t want to be late.”

  He made his way to the door, clearly unhappy with the state he was leaving her in but she gave him an encouraging wave and an awkward thumbs-up as he glanced her direction before closing the door.

  Twenty minutes later, she had choked down the rest of her breakfast and sat on the back porch to take in the view of the lake with the morning dew and the iridescent wings of the purple martins flitting over the water. One swooped by with a dragonfly in its beak. Probably breakfast for its hatchlings.

  Oh, God.

  She ran to the restroom just in time. So much for breakfast.

  As she sat there, catching her breath and wiping her face and her mouth with another washcloth, she received a return call from the hospital. She picked up the phone she had thrown to the floor before falling to her knees in front of the toilet. The attending ER nurse advised that Becky was awake but in a lot of pain. Worse, she was refusing visitors.

  The nurse assured her that this was common in domestic abuse cases. The humiliation of being unable to walk away from the person hurting you was difficult to come to terms with, especially while suffering such devastating injuries.

  She moped a little longer, wondering if she could keep down some of the beef bone broth Jimbo had made in the pressure cooker last night. She had taken a sip before climbing into bed and was amazed at how savory and flavorful it was.

  She consumed an entire bowl.

  And then threw it up. Sad all that food was going to waste.

  Jimbo hadn’t been altogether honest when he’d said he was a good cook. Rather, he was an amazing cook. While she made toasted cheese sandwiches with white bread and processed American cheese that came individually wrapped in plastic, he made his with aged Emmental cheese, grilled ham, and brioche-style bread he baked from scratch.

  It broke her heart that he toiled in the kitchen, making meals she kept regurgitating until he finally relegated meal preparation to foods that had the best chance of not coming back up.

  There were, like, three.

  Her mind traveled to a tall mountain of a man who’d put his devil’s spawn inside her. More tears and another bout of hiccupping sobs ensued.

  She missed him. Missed his arms holding her tight and the cratered dimples on the sides of his mouth, which, when they erupted from a joke she told or from just appearing so happy, felt like hitting the three cherries at the slots in Vegas.

  Not that she’d ever been. Except for that one time during a high-speed chase.

  God, she was pathetic. She hated feeling this weak and emotional.

  And lonely. Not to mention sick and tired of being sick and tired. She would have dreaded going to the police station for questioning regarding Sam’s dumping of his wife in her driveway if it weren’t for her looking forward to seeing Mercy and Madame.

  Mercy, so she could throat punch her for stealing her car and abandoning her at the hospital—and then hugging her skinny ass.

  Madame, so she could bask in her stern grandmotherly-style attention.

  Mercy called with all of the details surrounding last night’s altercation at the cabin and proclaimed it was time to force Madame into coughing up her true identity.

  Loren laughed, saying she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, she forced herself to stand and gather a load of laundry when the doorbell rang.

  She smiled when she peered out her window and saw her car, or M2Ms’-issued vehicle, in her driveway and dumped the laundry basket and opened the door. Mercy was standing behind a well-put-together Madame Garmond, whose demeanor went from warm to gravely concerned as she walked inside. Usually unaffected, the older woman put her warm palm to Loren’s cheek and said, “Ma petite, how long have you been in the family way?”

  Loren shot a scathing look at Mercy. “You told her.”

  Mercy raised her hands in self-defense. “Hey, I didn’t tell her a thing.”

  “How else would she have known?”

  “I don’t know,” Mercy balked, pointing a thumb at the elderly woman. “Add clairvoyant to the long list of attributes that come out of nowhere when it comes to our fake grand-mère.

  Madame ignored their banter as she led Loren into the kitchen, sat her in a chair, and began rummaging through the refrigerator.

  She pulled out green apples and a grapefruit.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” she asked, setting a clump of ginger on the counter, which made Loren spit up a little in her mouth. A glass of water appeared in front of her, by a hand with perfectly polished fingernails, while Mercy sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table, picking at hers.

  Loren took a sip. “I have an appointment to see an obstetrician tomorrow. A Dr. Hollowell. But I’ve taken a pregnancy test, which was positive.”

  She was grateful to have been able to covertly purchase the test at a convenience store in Newberry as opposed to one in Wilder, where everyone in town would have been well aware of her purchase and condition within a matter of hours.

  Madame lifted a lemon and a carrot from the fresh produce drawer.

  “Juicer?” she asked.

  Loren pointed at the far-left cabinet. Jimbo had brought it home just the other day, and she’d been pretty sure the obscure kitchen appliance would never be used.

  Go figure.

  Mercy tapped her fingers on the table. “Did you hear back from the doctor or Becky?”

  Loren shared what little she knew and how Becky wasn’t ready to see any visitors yet. She sighed and then noticed all the items Madame had gathered on the kitchen counter beside the sink. “I hope you’re not assuming I can eat... or drink any of that.”

  “Of course you can, and you will.”

  “Oh-kay, then I hope you don’t think I can keep any of that down.”

  “You can and you will.”

  With a sigh, Loren laid her head on the table, too tired to argue.

  Mercy plucked at her lips. “If this is what it’s like to be pregnant, I’m out.”

  “Then I hope you do a better job preventing it,” Loren growled.

  Neither one mentioned the question of it ever being a concern. Regardless, Loren regretted the thoughtless comment. Yet, Mercy appeared unfazed.

  “The women in our family are known to suffer from hyperemesis gravidarum,” Madame interjected.

  Mercy frowned. “Sounds like a spell in a Harry Potter book.”

  Madame further explained as she sliced the fruit, “It’s a complication considered more severe than morning sickness, characterized by severe nausea, vomiting, and weight loss.”

  Loren rolled her forehead back and forth on the table. “Then I guess I should feel fortunate to be related to you in spirit only.”

  “Hmmm,” Madame responded as she began to force individual ingredients through the juicer.

  “What time do we have to be at the police statio
n?” Loren mumbled.

  “Not until one o’clock,” Mercy offered, reaching for a leftover apple wedge on the counter and popping it into her mouth.

  Loren barely lifted her head with a scowl. “Could you please stop chewing like a long-haul trucker in a gas station diner?”

  Mercy’s head popped up in indignation as she stared at Madame. “Seriously, is this what we have to look forward to for the next five or six months?”

  Madame turned to Loren with a full glass of her citrusy concoction. “The women in our family are also prone to misophonia during pregnancy.”

  “Miso... what? Ooh, let me guess.” Mercy perked up. “Overall surliness with a side of beotch?”

  “Language, young lady,” Madame admonished.

  Loren could only manage to lift her head a little higher and deepen her scowl at Mercy.

  Madame set the glass of juice on the table and settled in the chair between them. “Misophonia is a condition where certain sounds like slurping, chewing, tapping, and clicking can elicit intense feelings of rage.”

  “Oh goody, an even more enraged Loren,” Mercy deadpanned, chewing with audible intensity.

  “I swear, if you don’t stop chewing your food like a starved animal, I’m going to punch you in the boob.”

  “Big talker,” Mercy countered, popping another piece of crunchy fruit into her mouth. “You had your chance.”

  “I’m pregnant, Mercy. It’s a little difficult to perform an adequate choke hold when your insides are being ravaged by a feral embryo.”

  “I’m never getting pregnant,” Mercy quipped, crunching down on her apple slice.

  “I hate you,” Loren said unconvincingly.

  “Drink,” Madame instructed, pushing the glass closer to her. She turned toward Mercy. “And you, be a good sister and chew with your mouth closed and with a tad less vigor.”

  Loren stared at the frothy acidic beverage. There was no way she was keeping that down. But there was no arguing with Madame, either. Oh well, better to prove her point than butt heads with the intractable woman.

  A fruitless effort.

  She laughed at her own joke, then picked up the glass and took a sip.

  Goodness. That was… rather refreshing.

  She waited to see how her stomach responded. Rather than swishing it around like a storm at sea, it seemed to settle. Quite nicely.

  She took another healthier sip, and again, was shocked when her insides didn’t seize.

  Then she downed the entire drink, waiting for the worst.

  Which never came.

  As she began to feel human again, Loren noticed a splash of paint on Mercy’s wrist. “Are you painting?”

  She shrugged. “Here and there.”

  “That’s good,” Loren said, feeling so much better. “How are things going with your fake fiancé?”

  Mercy squirmed in her chair as Madame handed her a bottled water and then one to Loren. She instantly went to town, tearing off the paper, one of her tells when the subject matter was causing her anxiety.

  “We aren’t... pretending anymore.”

  “Then he received the signed paperwork from family services?”

  “No, but, he’s a shoo-in. So it all started to feel pointless.”

  Madame’s gaze urged her to go on.

  Mercy sighed. “I made the untimely mistake of breaking up with him in front of the entire town.”

  “During the ribbon-cutting ceremony for Wilder’s Hardware,” Madame added.

  “People heard you?” Loren asked. “Was that on purpose?”

  “No, just bad timing,” she grumbled.

  “But you had planned to break up eventually, right?”

  “Exactly. It was better to pull the Band-Aid off quickly. I mean, why wait for the inevitable?” Mercy said, ignoring an even more stoic Madame.

  Her sister seemed rather forlorn, given this was all part of the plan.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Of course I like him. He’s a great father.”

  “I mean, did you fall for him?”

  Mercy pulled off another piece of the label as she shrugged. “I would never fall for a guy like him. He has a history of lying, and taking on false identities. No doubt a master of manipulation.”

  Loren glanced at a tight-mouthed Madame and then back to Mercy. “Um, you could say that about everyone sitting at this table.”

  “Maybe I want someone different in my life. Maybe he should, too.”

  Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Do you think he deserves better? Could do better?”

  “You and I aren’t exactly what one would refer to as #relationshipgoals.”

  Loren stared at Mercy with knitted brows. “No idea what that means.”

  Mercy shrugged. “I’m not really sure either.”

  Madame couldn’t hold back any longer. “I think it would be a privilege for any man to have the good fortune of sharing his life with someone as magnificent as Mistress Mercy Ingalls.”

  Mercy’s shoulders sagged. “You have to say that. You’re my fake grandma, who loves me unconditionally.”

  Loren agreed. “No, Madame is right. Anyone would be fortunate to be with you. Despite your heinous table manners.” And then she reached out to touch Mercy’s hand. “Please don’t allow Halstead’s vile words, misinformed staff, and manipulated case notes affect your sense of self-worth. That’s what he wanted. It was all part of his maniacal plan. Don’t let what he did back then affect who you are now that you’re finally free of him.”

  Mercy’s eyes shot up. “Yeah? That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

  Loren sat back in her chair. “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you living in Newberry instead of where you belong, with the rest of the family in Wilder? The hometown you picked out for us based on those stupid Laura Ingalls Wilder books. The hometown that turned out to be the best bad decision you’ve ever made?”

  Loren took a heavy breath. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to Ally. Ally shouldn’t have to be reminded of one of the worst days of her life every time she saw Loren on the town square or in church or even when coming over to spend time with Cara. She deserved better.

  So did Alec.

  And let’s be real. Milo wasn’t the only man she had killed. There was Halstead and a few others who’d proved to be armed and imminent threats to herself and Mercy while working rather high-risk jobs that had to be taken out.

  “My situation is different.”

  Madame scoffed as she crossed her arms and averted her gaze, shaking her head.

  “It is different,” Loren argued. “I... I killed a man. In front of Ally. How would you two feel if it were Cara? We did everything humanly possible, under impossible circumstances, to protect her from the very thing I did in front of Ally without a second thought or hesitation. That’s not only unforgettable but, more importantly, unforgivable.”

  “My, my,” Madame huffed. “You two ladies are quite the martyrs. I must say I find it quite admirable, really, making life-altering decisions for yourselves and others. Sacrificing futures full of love and happiness so you can stand pious with the back of your hands to your foreheads, much like a modern-day Joan of Arc. Why don’t we just gather up some brush and burn one another at the stake for our transgressions? Me included?”

  Loren and Mercy stared at Madame, slack-jawed.

  “Allow me to advise you two sanctimonious women that we have all done things we regret in life. That no one is above scrutiny. That we must first love and forgive ourselves before we can truly love and forgive others.”

  “Okay,” Mercy challenged. “What about you? What have you done that was so despicable? Tell us that, and I’ll pile up some tumbleweeds on the front lawn and strike the first match.”

  Madame’s expression turned vulnerable—an expression Loren had never seen before on the imperious woman’s face. She began to fiddle nervously with the pearl bracelet on her wrist and then clenched her han
ds together while her shoulders tensed.

  “For one, I gave your mother up for adoption.”

  Chapter Four

  “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words.” — Victor Hugo

  Silence.

  Mercy couldn’t quite find the words to respond to such an unexpected admission. Loren also struggled with the English language while Madame avoided both pairs of wide eyes.

  Mercy was the first to gather letters in the alphabet, put them together in some sort of semblance, and speak them out loud. “You put our mother up for adoption?”

  “I did.” Madame swallowed, the constant blinking of her eyes the only visual indication that she was shaken.

  Mercy tried another sentence. “You’re not our fake grandmother?”

  “I am not.”

  “You’re our real grandmother?”

  Loren was now staring at Mercy, blinking repeatedly. But again, no words from across the table.

  Mercy decided to remain quiet. She was no stranger to emotional volcanic activity. But she sensed she was on the verge of witnessing her big sister lose her cool. And keeping everyone calm and on an even keel seemed the less violent course of action.

  But she also felt tired and sad. While also feeling betrayed and, at the same time, curiously pleased. Which conjured up a fair amount of shame. Shame for being so starved for a connection she might easily dismiss the deception of this woman lying to them for years, while they lived in a virtual prison under the sinister thumb of Dr. Halstead.

  But Loren didn’t say a word. Only stared at Madame in silent judgment.

  She couldn’t hold back.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Mercy asked, squeezing the bottle of water with pent-up anxiety.

  “I did tell you,” she insisted. “If you recall, it was during a rather inelegant public display while planning for Thanksgiving festivities in the basement of the church. But neither of you believed me. Turned it into a joke of sorts. And I didn’t want to push the issue during such a public forum.” Madame touched the pearls at her throat. “I surmised that doling out information, piecemeal, would be easier for you girls to digest. But you regarded my attempts as no more than a silly ruse. So, I decided to give you time to marinate in the truth. Earn your… love, so to speak, so that the truth wasn’t quite so regrettable.”