The Lullaby Sky

by Carolyn Brown

  Then he talked her into putting the title to the place in his name. For the baby’s sake, he’d said, and she signed the papers without even thinking about it. Then he had even more than Sophie to hold over her head. He could take her child and her familial home. He could leave her with nothing but the old car that she’d been driving when he married her and what clothing was on her back at the time. Her substitute teaching and waitress gigs had not given her much of a financial foundation.

  The front door opened, and Hannah jumped up, straightened the bedspread, and scanned the room for anything that might be out of place. She took a deep breath and tried to remember if there was more than one book on the coffee table and if it was centered properly. She and Sophie had had ice cream for a midafternoon snack, and she’d left the dirty dishes in the sink.

  “Hey, where are you? I’ve got a terrific idea for our first weekend project,” Darcy yelled from the living room as she arrived.

  Hannah exhaled slowly and braced a hand on the wall for a second before she put a smile on her face and headed for the living room. It was only Darcy, not Marty. He was not coming back, not ever, she thought with each step.

  Darcy had kicked her shoes off in the middle of the floor, left her suitcase beside the sofa, and thrown herself back in the recliner. “I need sweet tea,” she said as she popped the chair into a sitting position. “I’ll make us both a glass. You got fresh lemons, right?”

  “Always.” Hannah’s hands itched to pick up Darcy’s high heels and carry them up to a guest bedroom. “What’s this big idea of yours, anyway?”

  Darcy hopped up out of the chair and followed Hannah into the kitchen. She removed a gallon jug of tea from the refrigerator, set it on the cabinet, filled two glasses with ice, and carefully poured them full. Hannah rolled a lemon on the cabinet until it was soft, sliced it into wedges, added two to each glass, and put the rest into a bowl for later use.

  “Sophie has ratted you out, girlfriend.” She set them on the table. “I know that you sleep in the guest room and that neither of you go into the master bedroom except when I’m here. So we’re going to clean out that room and paint it tonight. Then tomorrow we’ll go to town and get a new bedroom outfit and whatever else you need to redo it.” She pulled out a chair, sat down, and propped her feet in another one. “Give me time to drink this and we’ll get started. Travis is bringing his truck over to take all that furniture down to the hangar to store until you decide what to do with it.”

  “And the paint?”

  “It’s pale blue, like your room when you were a teenager. I picked it up after work, and yes, I remembered two rollers and the brushes and the whole nine yards. Travis doesn’t know it, but he’s going to do the part up close to the ceiling.”

  “Aunt Darcy!” Sophie ran into the room from the back door. “Travis said he’s moving stuff for Mama today. What is it?”

  “We’re going to redo my old bedroom.” Hannah smiled. “Darcy thinks it should be pale blue.”

  “Me, too. I wish we had one of them windows in the ceiling but we can ’tend, can’t we?”

  Hannah opened her arms, and Sophie walked into them. “Yes, we can pretend. We’ll curl up in my new bed and pretend that there’s a window up there and we can see the clouds. We’ll even sing.”

  Her child smelled like a sweaty five-year-old who’d been playing tag with an imaginary friend in the backyard. Another split second of panic set in—Sophie’s face was not clean and her hair not brushed out, plus the tea glasses were sweating onto the tablecloth. Oh. Sweet. Jesus. Darcy was there—Marty hated Darcy more than any of her friends.

  “What?” Darcy asked. “You went pale as a ghost.”

  “How pale is a ghost, Aunt Darcy?”

  “They’re white like bedsheets.” Darcy laughed.

  “My sheets are pink, but Mama’s are red silky stuff in Father’s room. Upstairs in her other room, they’re white. Aunt Birdie has white sheets and I like the way they smell.” Sophie wiggled free of her mother’s embrace. “I’m going back outside. Nadine is waiting for me.”

  “Want to explain all that?” Darcy asked.

  “Sophie’s sheets are pink. Those in the master bedroom, the ones I only slept in when Marty was home, are red satin. But I really like plain old white cotton sheets, so that’s what I use in my bedroom, which is upstairs.”

  “Now it makes sense. And what happened to Anna Lou? She didn’t quite fill me in,” Darcy said.

  “She has the bumps so she can’t come out and play today. Nadine is playing with me,” Sophie said as she ran out the back door, yelling to the imaginary Nadine that she was back and ready to play chase.

  “Nadine? Bumps?” Darcy asked Hannah.

  “Mumps. She saw something on one of her cartoon shows about the mumps and instantly Anna Lou had them. I had to tell her ten times last night that she’d had shots for mumps when she was just a baby so she probably wouldn’t get them. Nadine was the little girl on the show who was the next-door neighbor,” Hannah explained.

  “You’ve done well with her,” Darcy said. “You almost had a panic attack there. Was it because you forgot that Marty was gone and thought since this is Friday he might be flying in?”

  Hannah nodded. “Exactly. Please tell me that her imaginary friends aren’t something that will show up later in the form of OCD or temper fits?”

  Darcy giggled. “She’s got Marty’s DNA, but honey, she’s also got yours, and environment plays a big part in every person’s life. How have you been these past couple of days? Has it become real that it’s over?”

  Hannah slowly shook her head. “Aunt Birdie said this antsy feeling inside me took six years to build and I shouldn’t expect it to leave in three days.”

  “I hate him for what he did to you. We all thought it was mental abuse. Was there more? Did he hit you? Please tell me he never laid a hand on Sophie.” Darcy looked as if she could break into tears.

  Hannah reached across the table and laid a hand on Darcy’s. “I sent Sophie to the backyard or the porch or even to Aunt Birdie’s when he got mad. He didn’t know much about being a father, because he always had a nanny and his dad was too busy to pay much attention to him.” Hannah’s words came out slowly.

  “He did beat you, didn’t he? Just like we think Wyatt slaps Liz around. God, I’m going to rethink ever trusting a man.”

  Hannah sipped her tea. “He could get very angry, and he left bruises more than once. If I hadn’t been such a country bumpkin . . .” She hesitated. “It’s in the past. Let’s leave it there. At least there were no broken bones and he never laid a hand on Sophie.”

  “Aunt Birdie is right about it taking time, but why didn’t you tell me he was doing more than yelling and threatening?” Darcy frowned.

  “It wasn’t your burden to carry. I made the mistake of trusting him, of getting pregnant, and of marrying him. And he wasn’t always physically violent. Most of the time it was mental abuse. I couldn’t ever do anything right. But now it’s in the past. Now, tell me more about what you’ve got in mind for my room. Do I get a say-so?” Hannah removed her hand and picked up her glass of tea.

  “Of course you do. I picked out the paint, and I’m supplying part of the elbow grease. Liz will be here in about half an hour, and Travis said he’ll be here when you get your underwear drawers cleaned out. He doesn’t want to embarrass you.” Darcy grinned. “Like at thirty-eight, he’s never seen a women’s underbritches!” She giggled. “So let’s take this tea to your room, strip down the bed, and then start packing all your dresser drawers into boxes. We’ll move them into the dining room for tonight, and by tomorrow night, the room won’t look the same.” Darcy squeezed her arm gently. “I’m your friend, Hannah O’Malley—we share burdens as well as joys. And now I’m going to put on my paintin’ clothes and you should do the same.”

  “Thank you.” Hannah swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat didn’t budge very much. “I’ll do that after we get the drawers emptied and the r
oom ready to paint. Am I really going to put perfectly good furniture in storage and buy new? It sounds extravagant.”

  Darcy moved from kitchen to living room. “Yes, you are. Anything in this house that was Marty’s or reminds you of him, we’ll throw away, give away, sell. It doesn’t matter. You need a fresh start.”

  Darcy set her tea on the coffee table, threw her suitcase onto a chair in the corner, and unzipped it. She’d been wearing a cute little jacket, a straight skirt, and a silk shell. It all came off in a blur and landed on the recliner in a pile. She dug around in the messy suitcase and brought out a pair of paint-stained jean shorts and a button-up shirt with ragged arm holes where the sleeves had been cut out.

  Hannah followed her from one room to the other and tensed at the mess. “Want me to take your things up to one of the bedrooms while you change?”

  “They’re okay here until we get done with cleaning out your room. I’ll tote them up there, then. I’m surprised that you sleep upstairs, as protective as you are,” Darcy answered as she wrapped a stretchy hot-pink headband around her hair.

  “I still have a baby monitor in her room. I know when she rolls over in bed,” Hannah answered.

  “Well, okay then. Let’s go reclaim your property.”

  Hannah led the way across the foyer, took a deep breath, and opened the bedroom door. Flashbacks stopped her right inside the door. This was where Marty had beaten her down with his words and sometimes his fists. Either way, it was always her fault. If she hadn’t folded the napkins wrong, if Sophie’s toy hadn’t been left on the coffee table, if she’d been raised in the right circles, if he’d only known that she was nothing but low-class white trash—then she would understand what he needed in a wife and she wouldn’t be living in the backwoods where he had to train her even to be able to take her to a Christmas party.

  Darcy went straight to the shiny black dresser with nine drawers and pulled out the bottom one on the right side. Carrying it to the bed, she gasped. “Sweet Lord! Do they all look this neat?”

  Hannah nodded. “I told you that Marty is OCD.”

  “This goes beyond OCD, Hannah. Did you iron these socks?” Darcy dumped the whole drawer on the bed.

  Hannah blushed and took a deep breath. “What should I do with all of his things?”

  “You own them. The judge said everything in this house. What do you think? A bonfire?”

  “No!” Hannah said quickly. “If we did that, Sophie would want to roast marshmallows.”

  “And I damn sure don’t want her to eat anything that comes from the flames from this stuff,” Darcy said. “It might poison the child. I vote we put all of his stuff in a big black garbage bag and store it with the furniture.”

  The idea came to Hannah in the form of a picture of a sign outside a women’s shelter in Gainesville. She’d made it to that shelter once, but Marty had figured out where she was within five minutes of the time she walked through the doors. Why not donate all of this stuff to that shelter that helped abused women? They could sell whatever they couldn’t use and keep the money. She whipped her phone from her hip pocket and clicked on the phone number highlighted on their website.

  “Patchwork Home. Gina speaking,” a brisk voice answered.

  “This is Hannah O’Malley. I came to your place a while back, but only stayed about five minutes. I live in Crossing, and I’ve got some things I would like to donate.”

  “I remember you. You are kin to Birdie Wilson, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you had a little dark-haired girl with you?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Did you resolve that abuse issue?”

  “Divorce was signed on Wednesday.”

  “Good for you. Now, about this stuff you want to donate?”

  Hannah sat down on the edge of the bed. “A complete bedroom suite, sheets, comforters. How much can you handle? And what about men’s clothing?”

  “All of it, and we’ll be glad to get it. Sometimes women show up here with teenage boys in tow, and we seldom have anything that they can wear.”

  Darcy sat down beside her, picking up the tail of the conversation. “Great idea.”

  “My ex-husband wasn’t a very big man, so these things should work for a teenage boy. Socks and underwear?” she asked.

  “Honey, sometimes they arrive in nothing but their pajama pants, and even barefoot if their mama has left in a hurry. I can round up some volunteers to come and get it,” Gina said.

  “No, we’ll bring it to you. Is tonight all right?”

  “Of course. I’ve got two volunteers here now who’ll help unload and then get the clothing organized,” Gina said. “I’ll be expecting you.”

  “I never knew that you went to the shelter,” Darcy said after Hannah hung up.

  “I tried, but he figured out where I was.” Hannah stood up, threw open the closet doors, and tossed three expensive suits on the bed. “This stuff needs to be gone, not just stored, and I’m glad that I can donate it to the shelter.”

  “Hey.” Travis rapped on the doorjamb. “Sophie said it was all right for me to come in through the back door.”

  Hannah reminded herself to breathe. Long, deep breaths. That would still her racing heart. No one had sneaked up on her in a long time. She’d had to be vigilant to live with Marty, especially the last two years.

  “Sure it is, but what in the devil would a battered-women’s shelter want with men’s T-shirts? They are ironed and ready for use, folded even neater than they were the day they were bought.” Darcy held one up. “And probably the best that money can buy.”

  “Gina, the lady who runs the Patchwork House, says that the abused women don’t always arrive alone. Same way I did. Sometimes they bring teenage boys with them, and ninety percent of the time, they only have the clothes on their backs.”

  “Then you are giving all this to the women’s shelter?” Travis asked. “Furniture, too? Hannah, it’s only been a couple of days, and this is very nice furniture. Don’t do anything that you’ll regret later. You could sell this stuff and make a few dollars.”

  “Like Darcy said, if it’s in this house, it belongs to me, and believe me, there will be no regrets. And this is what I want to do with it—all of it,” Hannah said with conviction.

  “Holy smoke, Hannah, you weren’t kiddin’,” Darcy exclaimed when she opened the next drawer. “You really did iron his underwear.”

  “By choice?” Travis asked.

  “For survival,” Hannah whispered as she headed to the kitchen. She took a moment to rein in her thoughts. Pure fire would pour from Marty’s eyes and steam from his ears if he knew all his clothing was going to be stuffed into a garbage bag and sent to a battered-women’s shelter.

  He hated women’s shelters. She’d had the bruises to prove it, because when he came home the weekend after she’d tried to leave, he’d made sure she understood that was the last chance she’d ever get to try to run away with Sophie again. Next time he would take the child and she’d never see her again.

  But there had been no next time, because Hannah was terrified of losing Sophie. She peeled off two garbage bags—one for the things in the dresser drawers, another for the things in the closet. She smiled at the poetic justice of sending it all to the women’s shelter. Everything that had been Marty’s. That’s what Darcy had said. The shelter could have that damned leather recliner in the living room and the table beside it and the lamp, too. That had been Marty’s, and no one had better sit in it or move that lamp a fraction of an inch. When she dusted Hannah used a tape measure to be sure it was put back exactly where he liked it.

  “You might need to hook up that trailer that you cart around your lawn mower on when you take it down to the church to take care of the landscaping,” she said as she shook out a plastic bag, picked up a fistful of snowy-white T-shirts, and tossed them inside. When that was done, she started on the underwear and then the silk pajama pants and the matching robes. By the time s
he put the last pair of socks into the bag, there was barely enough room to tie it shut.

  “Now what?” Darcy asked.

  “There are two drawers of my things. Dump them on the sofa in the living room and I’ll take care of them after a while,” Hannah said, amazed at how much lighter her heart felt already. She picked up the second bag and shook it open. “Next is all the clothing he left behind and his shoes. Travis, you might want to hitch up the trailer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He grinned. “I’ll back it up to the front door and start taking things out of here soon as you’re ready.”

  “This stuff is pretty heavy. You’ll need some help,” Hannah said.

  “Aunt Birdie has a furniture dolly out in her storage shed. I used it when I moved my stuff into the house last year. Everyone in town borrows the thing when they move. See y’all in a few minutes.”

  Sophie came bouncing down the hall, singing “I’ll Fly Away” so loud that it echoed all through the house. She made up words that she didn’t know and the new lyrics said that she would fly away, oh, glory, if Jesus would just send her some wings.

  Hannah giggled.

  Darcy laughed out loud.

  Travis picked up Sophie and swung her around until she squealed.

  When her feet were on the ground, she ran to Hannah’s side, her eyes darting around the room. “Mama,” she whispered. “Father will be so mad.”

  “Your father said that he doesn’t want any of this stuff,” Hannah said. She didn’t say that Sophie’s father—not her daddy by any means—didn’t want either of them, either.

  Travis hurried across the room, picked Sophie up, and tossed her onto the bed. “It’s a trampoline! See how high you can jump.”