Echoes of Family

by Barbara Claypole White

  Then Darius smiled up at Marianne, his face white. “Wounded in the line of husbandly duty. How fucking cool is that? For the record, I would die for you, my goddess.”

  “I love you too.” Brushing back his hair, she kissed his forehead. “Please be okay.”

  “It’s just a scratch,” Darius said, attempting to pull himself up. And then he fainted into Gabriel’s lap.

  As the church clock struck the hour, his shoes pounded on the pavement. His lungs were about to explode—running in this humidity was ludicrous—but the moment Darius and Marianne had left for the hospital, Gabriel had been haunted by an image of EmJ alone with a knife in the only place she knew to go other than the village hall: his house.

  He turned the corner to Nell’s Lane and flopped, wheezing, against Phyllis’s stone wall. The front door of the rectory was flung open, and his car was missing. Gabriel doubled over, fighting to control his breath and confront the stark reality of his own ineptitude.

  Simon had always accused him of being a pushover, saying that anyone who trusted others as much as his baby brother did was begging people to take advantage. Apparently that was still true. Even Marianne, who never thought her actions through, had questioned the wisdom of perpetually leaving his front door unlocked. With his car key on the hook inside the door. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d filled up on petrol the day before. That car could go hundreds of miles on one tank.

  EmJ’s duffle might provide some clues: an address book or a phone. He ran into the house, up the stairs, and into the spare room. The duffle, the only thing EmJ had brought with her, was gone. Briefly he wondered what else was missing. Had she found the fake Bible safe where he kept his cash?

  Sunlight hit a single cobweb strand, hanging in the air, attached to nothing. It shimmered, floating without beginning or end. He collapsed onto one of the unmade beds and visualized EmJ wandering around his house in her boyfriend’s boxer shorts and a tatty white T-shirt, her legs like matchsticks. He saw all the elastic bands and bits of goodness-only-knows-what tied around her tiny wrist, small enough for a christening bracelet. He hadn’t wanted this teenager in his house, but now he would give anything for her to be in this room. Safe. This wasn’t about Marianne, this was about a young woman—no, a child—in danger. A child he should have paid more attention to. Instead he had fallen behind Marianne’s lead, knowing that she was barely able to look after herself, let alone a disturbed girl. He should have asked for details of EmJ’s medical history; he should have monitored her behavior. He had fouled up big-time.

  Life had been so much easier in the army. Maybe he should think about going back. He’d never questioned his ability as a vicar, always knew he could rise above the petty gossip and the endless flack. But he’d hit a concrete wall of his own failings. What if he was no longer the best man for the job? And take away his job, and what remained?

  Slowly he stood up and walked downstairs. When his mobile rang, he answered immediately. “Hugh?”

  “Bloody big cock-up. I’ve called her psychiatrist, but off the record, I have no doubt he’ll recommend she be sectioned. He would have no choice with her history.” Hugh knew her history? “The most important question is whether Darius is safe. Will he be in danger if he comes back to the rectory?”

  Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “I never thought about that. But EmJ may be some distance away. She took my car.”

  “Do you think she’s dangerous?”

  “Honestly, Hugh, I have no clue. If you’d asked me the same question this morning, I would have told you no. But she’s highly unstable and I suspect still on drugs. I’m going to wander round the village, see if I can spot my car.”

  “I’ll get the dog sorted and come over. Keep your mobile on, and for God’s sake, man, lock your house. Leave a key for me in the garden shed under an upturned flowerpot.” Hugh’s voice had shifted. The professionalism had gone. He sounded, for want of a better word, afraid. Or had he also dared to hope that they could make a difference in EmJ’s life?

  “I’ll see you later,” Hugh said, and hung up.

  Throat dry, Gabriel pushed open the kitchen door. He would grab a cold drink before heading back out. Marianne’s half-written press release was still on the table, and her balls of paper were on the floor. And dropped in his sink, covered in blood, was the knife.

  He turned the tap to hot and watched Darius’s diluted blood circle down the drain.

  Marianne didn’t know him as well as she thought. This had nothing to do with taking the moral high ground or putting his parishioners first. What it did mean? That wasn’t quite so clear.

  Any advice you have, God, would be much appreciated. Since I appear to have started on a path of no return.

  THIRTY-THREE

  MARIANNE

  A reformed addict was now responsible for feeding her husband opiates. Neither Gabriel nor Hugh had clocked that Marianne was in possession of enough pain meds to give a woolly mammoth the trip of a lifetime. But her objective was to fly under everyone’s radar. And be strong for EmJ. Lead by example. Marianne eyed the pill container on the bedside table and muttered, “Stay over there, guys.”

  Hugging her knees to her chest, she watched Darius from the small wicker chair with the floral slipcover. Hard and uncomfortable, it was an old nursing chair from the sixties, and the drawer in the seat had once been Gabriel’s hiding place for everything from her love letters to their weed. Since Mrs. Bonham nursed both her boys in the chair, she always treated it with the same reverence as the stuffed dog on wheels they used to push around the house. Which had made it the last place she would have gone snooping.

  Muffled voices rose up through the floorboards and thin carpet, and then chairs scraped across the kitchen floor. Hugh and Gabriel were still up, although it was past midnight. Gabriel had remained out, searching, until the light began to fade around nine o’clock. Blessedly late by North Carolina standards, but not late enough. And she and Darius had returned from the hospital to find Hugh chatting with the police. Apparently the fact that EmJ was missing superseded concerns about a possible criminal investigation, but a chain reaction was in place that would have serious repercussions for EmJ.

  Thankfully EmJ had money—Marianne hadn’t told anyone that her wallet was now empty—but she was out there scared and alone. Even on psych wards, Marianne had never been alone. Her parents were always there, on the other side of double-locked doors, waiting to hug her and take her home. Never once had they said, “We didn’t sign up for this. Give us the out clause.”

  EmJ should have the same guarantee. Every kid should. Marianne rested her cheek on her knees while a band of pressure tightened across her chest. Man, this time she’d earned the I Screwed Up Girl Scout platinum badge. But she could fix this, and the second an opportune moment came, she was on a one-woman rescue mission. Failure was not an option, because if roles were reversed, she knew the emergency exit she would take. EmJ had nothing except for the most lethal weapon of all. A car.

  In the black night the wind picked up, blowing through the open sash window, ruffling the curtains and carrying in the smell of rain. Marianne got up and closed the window. Then she sat on the edge of the bed—her back to the pill bottle—and took Darius’s hand.

  He looked impossibly peaceful for someone who slept only in snatches. Often he would thrash around until she kicked him out of bed to wander the house like a roving gypsy. And in the morning she would find him asleep on the sofa or the bedroom floor. She never figured out where his nightmares came from. The meat tenderizer incident he’d never mentioned before today?

  There was so much they hadn’t told each other, filling in the blanks with words of adoration. Darius always labeled his marriage to the ex, an alcoholic with violent outbursts, as the worst decision of his life. After today Marianne was in little doubt the woman had also been abusive.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and a boom of thunder, directly overhead, rattled the windowpanes. Torren
ts of rain lashed the roof and battered the gutters. Darius stirred and Marianne glanced at her watch. Time to give him some more Tramadol. Keeping her mind blank, she snatched up the pill bottle, screwed off the top, dumped one pill into her hand, screwed the top back on, and hid the bottle behind the digital clock. Then she slipped an arm under his head and raised him up.

  “Darius, sweetheart, it’s time for more meds.” He opened his mouth; she popped in the pill and brought the water glass from the nightstand to his lips. He gulped, and she eased him back down.

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider getting a nurse’s costume with a garter belt and a push-up bra?” His eyes were still closed, but he sounded remarkably lucid.

  “How long have you been awake?”

  “Long enough to know you’re holding my hand.” Wrapping his free hand around the back of her neck, he pulled her down for a kiss. A warm kiss, a gentle kiss that said, Stay with me, love me, don’t make life so hard.

  “I guess sex is out of the question?” he mumbled.

  She laid her palm flat across his chest and tried to remember desire. His naked chest was as perfect as it had always been—clichéd in its ruggedness—but the new dose of lithium had annihilated her libido. Pluto, that frigid little ball of ice and rock, probably saw more action. Her hand slipped down to the eiderdown at his waist and tugged on a feather sticking half in, half out.

  “You should have stayed away,” she said. “What if you can’t strum Absalom ever again? I asked you to go home for a reason. I wanted you safe and away from all this craziness. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

  “Can’t stay away from you, my goddess.” He started singing the Troggs’ “Wild Thing” off-key. Marianne couldn’t help it, she broke into a smile. Darius, it seemed, was a sweet drunk.

  He opened his eyes, blinked several times, and licked his lips. “Water?”

  She handed him the glass, and he half pushed himself up, drained it, and flopped back down. “Hey, you’re my hero. I mean heroine. You saved my life. And when I’m better, I’ll show you my gratitude. I’d like to prove it now. Not sure the junk’s up for the job, though. Feel kinda smashed. What did they give me, horse tranquilizers?”

  “Tramadol. A morphine-based opiate.”

  “Nice. If I play the sympathy card, will you come home with me?”

  “I love you, Darius, but I’m not ready to go home, not yet.”

  “Because of ex-boyfriend in the God squad or his brother, the teen stud?”

  “This was never about Gabriel, or Simon, or anyone but me. It shouldn’t always be about me, but right now it has to be. I have to get well for both of us, and I can’t until I’ve figured out all the broken pieces of my past. Have you ever considered that I’m a danger to your health?”

  “I like my health dangerous.”

  “Darius, what EmJ did? I have that same potential. In case you’ve forgotten, I threatened to kill you with a lamp.”

  “Yeah, but you throw like a girl. I can’t lie, though; you’ve got a spicy temper. Worse than mine half the time. You should take that anger management class I flunked.” His eyes closed. “Twenty-four stitches? That’s gonna leave one badass scar. I’ll be fending off hot-blooded middle-aged women and drag queens for the rest of my days. You’ll have to learn to deal with the jealousy, babe.”

  “Grrr,” she said, “you’re impossible.”

  “You’re growling at me. That’s kind of a turn-on. About the nurse’s costume . . .” His words trailed off and he fell back to sleep with a lopsided smile tugging on his lips.

  The thunder rumbled off around two a.m.; the rain didn’t. It continued like a biblical deluge. When she was a kid, the village was frequently cut off after this kind of rain. The River Ouse would rise over the bridge, and the flood level wouldn’t recede for days. They could be trapped; she would never find EmJ.

  Gabriel was carless, which meant she was carless, but Hugh, who was snoring on the living room sofa, was not. And last night she’d overheard him tell Gabriel that he’d canceled his appointments for today. So why did he need a car? He didn’t; she did. The conjoined facts—that she’d barely driven since the accident and never on the wrong side of the road—were irrelevant.

  Rain pummeled the glass patio doors as she slid Hugh’s car keys off the coffee table and into her jeans pocket and tiptoed back upstairs. Darius was lying on his back with the eiderdown kicked to the floor and his bandaged arm resting where she’d positioned it at three a.m. on a puffed-up pillow.

  “Where did you go?” Darius said quietly.

  “Downstairs to get something. How are you feeling?”

  “Woozy, and I had the worst nightmare. Some towering banshee was coming at me, screaming and waving a machete. I expected better from the Brits than allowing weapons into a church gathering.”

  “I hate to destroy your fantasy, but it was a serrated-edged cake knife with a decorative porcelain handle. Very beautiful. And EmJ’s tiny. She weighs ninety pounds tops.”

  “Can we keep those details between us?”

  She took his hand and kissed his wedding band. “I’m sorry. I should never have dragged another crazy person into my orbit.”

  He rolled his head sideways to examine her with huge dark eyes, penetrating eyes that she’d fallen in love with during an AA meeting. “You dragged me into your orbit.”

  “You’re intense, not crazy.”

  “I’m flattered you think so, but the dividing line’s a bit blurred for me where you’re concerned. Coming here to announce I would die for you doesn’t seem entirely sane to me this morning . . . especially since my favorite tattoo has been sacrificed to prove my point.”

  “I love you too, honey. And no, I don’t deserve you. And yes, I owe you an appointment at Tattoo Asylum to fix Cthulhu’s face.”

  “Damn right, woman. What time is it?”

  “Early. You need to go back to sleep, but I have to tell you something first.”

  He wove his fingers around hers and squeezed. “Anything except that you’re leaving to go after her.”

  “I’ll be back for dinner.”

  “Don’t do this, Marianne. She’s not stable.”

  A thrush welcomed daylight in the plum tree outside their window. Time was ticking. “I’m all she’s got. Her boyfriend abandoned her, her mom kicked her out. Gabriel, Hugh, and Dr. P. all warned me off. But how can that be right, to give up on a kid?”

  “It’s not, but you can’t save every unloved teenage girl.”

  “I don’t want to. I want to save this girl. She needs to know that I won’t give up on her.”

  He let go of her hand and turned to look at the bedroom wall. “You’re thinking about bringing her back to North Carolina, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “God help me, I love you more than makes sense.”

  “Ditto, which means we’re stuck with each other.” Reaching over the bed, she eased his face toward her and kissed him. “Do you need anything? I’ve written Hugh and Gabriel a note, asking them to take care of you.”

  He shook his head. “But I was serious about the nurse’s costume.”

  “I’ll buy one online when I get back. How’s that?”

  He grinned. “What are you doing for transportation?”

  “I’m taking Hugh’s car.”

  “Without his permission, I assume.”

  “Sleep. I’ll check on you later.” She tried to stand up, but he seized a fistful of her T-shirt and pinned her in place.

  “I’m letting you go because I’m trying to understand, but no heroic actions on your part. If you find her, call the cops. And if you don’t agree, I’ll scream loud enough to wake up half the neighborhood. She’s dangerous, and you’re not to risk upsetting her. Are we on the same page?”

  She said nothing; he continued. “It’s simple math. You agree equals you can commit grand theft auto. You don’t agree equals I scream, and three guys keep you hostage.”

  “But—”

>   His index finger waved in front of her nose like a metronome beating no. “Place your left hand here”—he grabbed it—“on my heart. Good. Now raise your right hand, and say after me: I, Marianne Stokes, do solemnly swear on the life of my amazing husband . . .”

  And she did.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  GABRIEL

  “We have a new wrinkle.” Gabriel shook Hugh awake. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven a.m.

  “Did you forget that you’re meant to remove your clothes before taking a shower?”

  Gabriel continued drying his hair with the kitchen towel. “I was attempting to prevent Marianne from stealing your car. I was unsuccessful. Also, it’s still pouring.”

  Hugh fumbled for his glasses, which were on the coffee table next to a torn scrap of paper. He sat up, yawned, and read the note. “Marianne apologizes and asks me to check on Darius. I do hope she fills up with petrol. I drove here on fumes.”

  Gabriel flopped down in his battered leather armchair and then shot up when he realized his bottom was soaking wet. “I specifically told her to not go after EmJ. What was she thinking?”

  “Probably wasn’t. Bipolar disorder does tend to make one a tad impulsive. She’s not covered under my insurance, though, so let’s hope she knows how to drive on the left. Then again, no point worrying about things you can’t control.”

  The phone rang, stopped, rang again.

  “Don’t you think you should answer that?” Hugh nodded at the phone on the coffee table.

  Gabriel shrugged. When his phone rang, the number of fires to put out tended to grow, and his problem list was officially full. Hugh, however, picked it up.

  “Newton Rushford rectory, good—” Hugh looked at Gabriel and made sympathetic noises that included uh-huh, oh dear, and my, my. Then he held the phone out so Gabriel could hear the squawking female voice.

  Gabriel stared through the patio doors. The lawn was covered in huge puddles of standing water, his hollyhocks were on the ground, and the blasted pigeons huddled on the birdbath had nothing to coo about this morning. He would include farmers in his morning prayers, especially those who had yet to finish harvest. (The combines had been out late last night.)