Echoes of Family

by Barbara Claypole White

  “So what if I party? I’m a teenager. I’m meant to be a mess.”

  “Yes, you are.” Marianne stopped and gave her a quick hug; EmJ stiffened. “But you need to make better choices about drinking and drugs. You can’t afford either right now.” Actually she couldn’t afford either for the rest of her life, but that was a battle for another day.

  “What part of ‘I’m a teenager’ didn’t you get?” EmJ said with a crooked smile.

  “Were you with Matt last night?”

  The smile disappeared, and EmJ shrugged.

  “Matt strikes me as a decent guy, but I know he mixes with the drug crowd. And you can’t, not unless you want to end up back in the hospital. Do us both a favor? Stay off the Molly?”

  “Yeah, whatevs.”

  Marianne elbowed her. “Don’t be such a teenager.”

  They continued on in silence, passing the village shop with Union Jack bunting festooned over the doorway and the dusty window display of water guns and Barbie clones lounging in bikinis around a doll-sized swimming pool. Traffic slowed to a crawl as cars, turn signals blinking, joined the line waiting to exit off the A428 at the folding sign advertising pony rides. Someone had worked hard to decorate it with hand-drawn Thelwell ponies.

  “Why can I hear sleigh bells?” EmJ asked.

  “I’m guessing Morris dancers.” They stopped at the pedestrian crossing with flashing orange lights. A modern eyesore on a historic street. “Want to go watch?”

  “No.”

  Marianne made a point of looking both ways before they followed a small group into the crosswalk. “If I were thinking about moving into an apartment, I’d want one down by the river. The original mill is in the Domesday Book. How cool is that?”

  EmJ’s silence suggested not cool at all.

  “They’ve just finished renovating the old building, converting it into swanky two-bedrooms. Mrs. Tandy was called in to clean the showcase apartment and told me the developer can’t sell any of them because he’s asking a fortune—holding out for wealthy commuters. Want to go look sometime?”

  EmJ shook her head and took Marianne’s arm again. “I’m scared,” she said in little more than a whisper. “The monsters are loud right now. I feel like I’m waiting for the void to open up again.”

  “Let’s call the Beeches when we get back. Get you an earlier appointment.”

  “Nah, it’s only two days.” EmJ leaned her head against Marianne’s. “How do you do it? Stop yourself from going mental?”

  “It’s a slow process, and I’m on the learning curve same as you. But drugs and alcohol don’t help. I know that from firsthand experience.” Marianne paused. Constantly repeating herself would only push EmJ away. “Lesson over, sweetheart. We’re getting way too serious. Right now all that matters is stuffing our faces with scones and clotted cream and drinking gallons of tea so we can be terribly, terribly British. And while we sip our tea with our pinkie fingers stuck out”—Marianne demonstrated—“we can rethink the set list for your gala performance. I disagree with Tom’s lineup.”

  “Is it that simple?” EmJ said.

  “Tea and music? Why not? God knows you and I got shortchanged in the area of nonmanic enjoyment. Cream teas rock, and performance is in your blood. Give yourself permission to enjoy both.” Marianne swallowed the imagined taste of a homemade scone slathered in homemade strawberry jam with clotted cream oozing over the top. It was enough to turn the most hardened carnivore into a dessert queen.

  “If performance is so great, how come you gave it up?”

  “It gave me up,” Marianne said. “Too much alcohol. The one time I came close to making it, I was barely functional. No way I could have coped with touring. I had to learn my own parameters, narrow my world while I tried to heal. And then I started Girls In Motion and discovered my real gift was working with teens who couldn’t see their own potential. I guess”—she thought of Gabriel—“you could say it was my calling. And you, girlfriend, have got it in spades. Those guys won’t hold you for long. This is only your first band—a stepping-stone to bigger things.”

  “Why do you have such faith in me?”

  EmJ spoke with too much weariness. Maybe forcing her out of bed after she’d expressed a desire to sleep the day away had been a mistake. “Because you have extraordinary talent and I’m sure no one’s ever told you that.”

  They rounded the village green and joined the stream of people moving toward the Chantry gates.

  “I’m really fucked up, Marianne,” EmJ said.

  “Newsflash—so am I. Need I remind you we met in the loony bin? And there’s a chance I’ve screwed up my marriage and my business in one quick tango with mania. I’m a three-time suicide survivor and an alcoholic, and I can’t ever risk going off my meds again. I’m far from having my life together. But that’s not going to stop me from trying to figure out how the pieces fit. I want to live. And I want you to live, too. You’ve got so much going for you. I know it’s hard to see that right now, but you have to believe.”

  Marianne hadn’t said that out loud in a long time. It used to be her daily mantra, recited into the bathroom mirror: “My life is worth living; I want to believe I can live.”

  “But you’re not angry all the time like I am. Everything pisses me off, and things matter to you.” EmJ chewed her thumbnail. “I’m not sure anything matters to me.”

  “Please don’t say that. You have your music. Music matters. It can change lives, including yours.”

  “I don’t think that way. Music is what I do. That’s all.”

  Bill Collins overtook them, walking remarkably quickly for someone who clearly needed a hip replacement. “Afternoon, Marianne.” He raised his stick a few feet off the ground and aimed it at her before disappearing.

  “Afternoon, Bill.”

  “Tosser,” EmJ whispered. “What’s his problem?”

  “I did unspeakable things to his daffodils a long time ago. As payback after he ratted out Gabriel for stealing candy from the village store. He and his wife were ridiculously proud of their garden, which was open every summer for the Red Cross Garden Tour. I ruined it. Guess he never forgave me.”

  “Shut the fuck up! Gabriel was a shoplifter? Amaze.”

  “Yup. It is amazing—the stupid things guys do when they think they’re in love.”

  “I bet Gabriel would still nick stuff for you if you asked,” EmJ said. “Long-lost love. It’s so romantic.”

  “Our boat sailed a long time ago, honey, and I’m happily married to someone else.” Please let that be true. “My relationship with Gabriel’s complicated, in part because of decisions I made when I was younger than you. Life would be great if we could hit the ‘Rewind’ button and fix things, but we can’t. And don’t be fooled by his dog collar. Gabriel has demons. He just doesn’t know what they are.” And neither do I.

  They turned onto a gravel driveway between high stone walls and artfully trimmed privet. Bunting was looped around the open gate, and sparrows and finches flitted in and out of the hedge. People swarmed: chatting, laughing, sitting, walking people. Couples sauntered around inspecting the gardens; some of the older women wore hats. The noise level rose, and EmJ sucked in her breath.

  The lawn was dotted with individual tables covered in white tablecloths. Bumblebees buzzed over the daisies embedded in the lawn, and china teacups chinked. Blue tits hopped between chair legs looking for crumbs, and at an abandoned table to their right, wasps hovered over a half-eaten slice of cake. The Chantry, a sprawling, two-story historic home that couldn’t decide whether it was a cottage or a country mansion, spread out in front of them.

  Gabriel ducked as he walked through the front doorway with a tea urn in his arms. He lowered the urn onto what appeared to be the serving table, then spotted them. With a broad grin, he pointed to a table isolated under the shade of a huge chestnut tree and wandered over.

  “Bit close this afternoon, isn’t it?” He raised his arm to fan his face, revealing a large sweat
stain under his arm. “Not likely to storm till tonight, though.”

  Heads turned; eyes watched; Marianne’s skin prickled. EmJ pulled closer.

  “It’s okay,” Marianne said. “We don’t have to stay.”

  “Hey, EmJ,” a quiet voice said behind them, and EmJ yanked her arm free of Marianne’s.

  Marianne turned to smile at Matt. He was wearing a Media Rage T-shirt that matched the one EmJ owned. And he had a new ear piercing that looked red and slightly bloody. Home done, no doubt. He wasn’t a bad-looking kid when he smiled. Bit pimply, but cute.

  Gabriel caught her eye. “Great timing, Matt. I have to go back inside to help Mrs. Tandy for five more minutes. Could you and EmJ get tea for all of us?”

  Matt grunted; EmJ caught her lip with her teeth and shrugged, and they walked off.

  “Good idea, inviting Matt to have tea with us,” Marianne said.

  “I thought you and I should get to know him better.”

  Marianne watched the kids walk toward the serving table. “Were our social skills that rough around the edges?”

  “Undoubtedly.” He glanced toward Bill Collins. “Will you be alright by yourself for a few minutes?”

  “Gabriel, I’m not a helpless damsel.” She leaned in. “I’m way tougher than I look when I’m sedated in the nuthouse.”

  He smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

  Marianne moved a chair around to face the flower bed and sat with her back to the villagers. Fat hostas, deer food in her garden, lined the front of the border, then astilbes with lacy plumes of white and red—blood and bandages, never plant those two colors together—and behind, black Sambucus, lacy elderberry shrubs masquerading as small trees. She’d tried to grow them in the ground and in pots. Not one had made it through a Carolina summer.

  A pair of peacock butterflies danced over the posy of garden flowers in the middle of the table. A moment’s peace . . . until a kid collided with the back of her chair and shouted, “Sorry, miss!” before scampering after his friend.

  Marianne turned with a smile and froze. Stalking up the driveway, his hair wilder than usual, his designer stubble closer to a real beard, was Darius. He flicked his hair back from his face and locked his sights on her. Her heart clutched the way it always did when she looked at this man who loved her with such devotion.

  Gripping the back of the chair, she stood slowly. Without missing a beat, he stepped off the path and made straight for her. As he wove through the crowd, putting his hand on people’s shoulders to push his way across the lawn, his eyes never left hers.

  Marianne forgot how to breathe.

  Darius stopped in front of her, and neither of them moved. The bags under his eyes were purple like bruises, his face thinner than she’d ever seen it.

  “Darius, I—”

  He grabbed her hands. Pinning them behind her back, he crushed her against his chest. “I was going to hire a plane to write I love you across the sky, but it was taking too long. So I’m delivering the message in person.”

  Arms locked around her, he tugged her closer still. “Please, Marianne,” he whispered, his words warm on her cheek, on the edge of her mouth, on her lips. “All I want is to love you. Please let me love you.”

  Her mouth yielded to his, and she tasted desperation. His. Hers. Theirs.

  Voices around them fell away except for EmJ’s, coming from a distance and closing in fast. “Get off her!”

  Darius pulled back. “Who the hell are you?”

  A flash of steel. Darius pushed her away, and Marianne stumbled over a chair and fell to the grass. She scrambled back up to see EmJ, legs braced, glaring at Darius. And she had a knife. A very long, very sharp-looking knife.

  “Give me the knife, honey.” Marianne put a hand on EmJ’s arm. “This is Darius, my husband.”

  EmJ swung around, and Marianne took a step back. Everyone had stopped moving; the crowd was as silent as it had been when she was sixteen, psychotic, and naked.

  “He’s going to take you away from me!” Knife held high, EmJ turned back to Darius. “No one wants you here! Go!”

  Darius raised his hands in the universal sign for surrender, but EmJ didn’t retreat, she advanced and slashed. One vicious movement that sounded like death itself slicing through Darius’s skin. Darius groaned and crumpled to his knees, clutching his arm. EmJ raised the knife for a second swing, and Marianne shot between her and Darius.

  “EmJ, no!” Marianne screamed. She grabbed EmJ’s wrist and held on tight.

  “We both know you’re going to leave me. Why’d you even bother to pretend?”

  “Stop. Please. I do care, honey. But Darius is my husband, and I love him.”

  “No, you’re meant to love Gabriel.”

  Gabriel appeared behind EmJ. “Drop the knife, EmJ.” The voice of reason and calm.

  Marianne glanced down at Darius, now lying on the grass, his black T-shirt and black jeans stained with fresh blood. And in those five seconds that she was distracted, EmJ wiggled free and ran.

  THIRTY-TWO

  GABRIEL

  EmJ tore down the driveway, bloody knife in hand, and disappeared into the village.

  “EmJ, wait!” Matt shrieked and started running after her. Two youths Gabriel didn’t recognize joined him.

  “Matt!” Gabriel yelled. “Stop, all of you. She has a knife.”

  Ian, the retired-army-sergeant churchwarden, appeared in the gateway. “Listen to the reverend, boys,” he said. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and gave Matt a smile that said, Don’t even think about trying to get past me.

  Gabriel yanked a tablecloth off the nearest table and ripped the thin fabric into strips. Dropping to his knees, he leaned over Darius. “Darius, raise your arm.” He wrapped a piece of cloth round the wound and then grabbed Marianne’s hand. “Keep the pressure on.”

  She was kneeling on the other side of Darius, her lips pale, her face ashen.

  “Stings like a bitch,” Darius mumbled.

  “Focus on how much you dislike me instead,” Gabriel said.

  “Yeah, you’re a dick.”

  “Rayne.” Gabriel called out for the Women’s Institute matriarch, a former school matron. “We need you.”

  He turned back to Marianne. He would prefer to not do this with an audience, but clearly she hadn’t told him everything. And EmJ was now loose in the village with a large knife. And children were having pony rides in the Abbey park.

  Behind him a mobile phone rang, and hushed voices gathered. He heard the word stabbing, and someone said, “Did you see what happened?”

  “Does EmJ have a history of violence?” he asked Marianne, but she didn’t answer. “Yes, or no? There are children everywhere.”

  She glared at him, her green eyes defiant. “She’s a child, too. A scared and unloved child who deserves a second chance. Her family failed her; the mental health care system failed her. We can’t fail her.”

  “I won’t ask a second time.”

  “She was hospitalized at thirteen for aggressive behavior. At thirteen, Gabriel. Who isn’t a powder keg at that age? But with that first incident on her record, the cops won’t take any chances, and neither will her psychiatrist. Any way you look at it, they’ll label her a mental patient with a history of violence. She’ll end up in the criminal justice system.”

  “She’s right. Happened to my first wife after she attempted to brain me with the meat tenderizer.” Darius closed his eyes. “Never told you, babe. Sorry.”

  “Someone call the police,” a voice yelled, “that girl is—”

  “No.” Marianne’s head jerked up. “No. I’m begging all of you. Please, don’t call the authorities. She’s not dangerous.”

  “No cops,” Darius said, his voice loud but shaky. “I’m not pressing charges.”

  “Everyone, please. Stay calm,” Gabriel said.

  Marianne turned to him. “We can find her, bring her back to the rectory, and keep her safe. Tell them not to call the cops, Gabriel. The
y’ll listen to you.”

  He glanced up. One of the choirboys was filming the scene with his phone, and an older parishioner, who had recently lost her grown son to a mugging turned fatal, watched Darius, her eyes watery. Gabriel scanned the crowd of people who looked to him for moral and spiritual guidance; people who trusted him to make good decisions for their community.

  “I can’t do that. And I won’t”—he softened his voice—“I’m sorry, but that would be an abuse of my position.”

  “So once again you’re taking the moral high ground. Must be great to feel so certain of your own righteousness.”

  “Marianne.” He lowered his voice. “This is not the time.”

  “Guys. I’m not feeling so good,” Darius said.

  “Now, now.” Rayne appeared and patted Marianne’s shoulder. “I think we’ve got this, haven’t we, dear? Let’s have a look.” She pulled her multicolored reading glasses from the top of her head, slipped them onto her nose, and peeled the bloodied rag back from Darius’s arm. “Oh yes, definitely needs stitches.”

  “I’ll call for an ambulance.” Gabriel pulled out his phone.

  “Heavens, no need.” Rayne pushed her glasses back up. “We’ll take him in my Discovery. Got the dog crates in the back, though. Has anyone seen my car keys?”

  Mrs. Tandy ran over, red-faced and coughing, and rattled a bunch of keys attached to a crocheted, heart-shaped Union Jack.

  “Ian?” Gabriel called out, not expecting Ian to be standing behind him. Gabriel glanced toward the gate, but there was no sign of Matt and his friends. “Call Hugh and ask him to contact EmJ’s psychiatrist at the Beeches. Have you got his number?”

  Ian nodded.

  “Ken?” Gabriel looked around for his other churchwarden. A hand shot up in the crowd. “Call the police. Tell them we have a missing teenager in crisis, recently released from psychiatric care, and that I’ve gone after her.”

  “Wait, man.” Darius reached out and tugged on Gabriel’s arm with remarkable strength. “I hate hospitals. Really hate hospitals. Isn’t there some country Doc Martin around here? I love British imports. BBC America rocks my world.”

  Good Lord, what was the man prattling on about? “Darius, you need stitches.”