Shadows on the Sand

by Gayle Roper

  Would saying it enough still the churning?

  Lindsay and Mary P went to the desk to ask if they could see Carrie. Pastor Paul arrived, and Greg felt bad that he hadn’t thought to call him and glad that either Lindsay or Mary P had. Of course Carrie’d like to see him, have him pray for her. With her.

  But Paul made no effort to go see Carrie. “Come sit,” he said to Greg.

  Great. Sympathy. Understanding. Concern. Just what he needed. Not. The man was too perceptive by half.

  Greg followed him because there was no alternative short of running screaming into the night. He sank into an uncomfortable plastic chair. Recognizing the chair as uncomfortable was another good sign, wasn’t it? Another normal thought.

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and studied the floor, anything to keep from letting Paul see his eyes. They were the windows to the soul or something like that, and he didn’t want anyone to know what a quivering failure he was.

  It took a few minutes before he realized that Paul was resting a hand on his back, comforting him as if he were the one who was injured. He hated being so transparent.

  Lindsay and Mary P came out of the patient area and joined them.

  Paul stood. “Let me go see her for a minute. Then she’s all yours, Greg.” He disappeared down the hall.

  “They took an x-ray,” Lindsay reported. “The break’s clean, but it’ll still require surgery for pins and a plate. They’re going to keep her overnight and operate tomorrow morning. Then they’ll put a split cast on, whatever that is.”

  Lindsay looked weary but relieved that things weren’t any more serious. He felt relief too, and now seemed a good time to leave while he was still holding himself together.

  “She’d like to see you, Greg,” Mary P said.

  He must have made some sound of distress because both women turned and looked at him.

  “Are you up to it?” Mary P asked.

  How could he explain that it was no longer the emergency itself but the fact he’d responded so emotionally that ripped through him? He’d thought all that posttrauma stuff was behind him. He’d dared to think he was well.

  How wrong that was. He was still a mess. He had been all but useless in a simple crisis, the kind of thing he had handled every day back when he was a cop. He might as well have a big L for loser plastered across his forehead.

  Lindsay frowned. “He’d better be up to seeing her.”

  Greg held up a hand to ward off any more comments and walked back to the patient area, passing Paul on his way out. He felt like he was slogging through quicksand, and his next step might be the one that pulled him under.

  Failure. Loser.

  He found Carrie’s curtained-off cubicle. She lay on a gurney, her head slightly raised. She was wearing a hospital gown, and her wrist was wrapped in an elastic bandage and held snug to her body by a sling. A lightweight blanket covered her. She looked tired but in good spirits.

  She smiled at him. “Hey.”

  The wave of relief that rolled through him shook him. She really was all right.

  The problem was, he wasn’t.

  She patted the side of her bed, and he sat near her knees.

  He took her good hand in his. “So you’re staying the night.”

  She nodded. “Surgery tomorrow morning to set this thing.” She didn’t seem at all apprehensive about it. “I think I’ll be allowed to go home tomorrow afternoon. Pick me up?” It was clear she assumed he’d be happy to do that little favor for her.

  “Sure.” Who could he get to come in his place? Failures didn’t deserve the prize or even the honor of being in the prize’s presence.

  But he stayed with her until an orderly came to take her to a room. He walked with her as she was wheeled to the elevator, still clasping her hand. Her eyes were droopy with the painkiller she’d been given, and she’d be asleep the minute she was in her bed.

  “I’d better go now and let you get a good night’s sleep.”

  She smiled at him, an intimate smile that plunged him deeper into his own personal black hole. He didn’t deserve intimate. He couldn’t do intimate. What in the world had he been thinking?

  He kissed her on the lips, a sweet, lingering kiss he thought of as good-bye. She smiled groggily at him as she was wheeled into the elevator.

  “I love you,” she said.

  He gave a stiff smile and watched the doors close. He turned for the exit. Lindsay and Mary P were already gone. He walked through the automatic doors into the parking lot and flipped the remote to unlock his car. And flicked it again to relock it.

  He turned and hurried back into the hospital. He rode the elevator to the third floor and walked down the hall until he found Carrie. A nurse was checking her vital signs as Carrie lay in the bed nearest the door in her semiprivate room.

  He stood in the doorway.

  Go home, idiot! She’s fine.

  When the nurse was finished, she clicked out the light over Carrie’s bed. She did one last check to make certain the call button was in place.

  “Just push if you need me.”

  But Carrie didn’t respond. She was asleep.

  The nurse paused as she passed Greg. “Don’t stay long. She’ll be fine. We’ll take good care of her.”

  He nodded. He walked into the room and stood by the bed. She looked so fragile. So beautiful.

  He pulled the visitor’s chair as close to the bed as he could and sank into it. He reached through the bars and under the blanket for her good hand. He laced their fingers. He laid his head back and closed his eyes for a minute.

  The nurse who came to check vitals at 4 a.m. woke him and made him leave.

  37

  By seven in the morning I was in surgery and by eleven I was back in my room, sporting a cast split on one side to allow for the swelling that was still present. At four in the afternoon, Lindsay appeared to drive me home.

  “I thought Greg was coming.” I tried not to look too disappointed to see my sister.

  “He asked me to come because he had some business stuff to take care of.”

  That made sense. “He’ll probably stop by this evening. You can make us those stripers for dinner.” One-day-old stripers would still taste okay, wouldn’t they?

  It was amazing how tired I felt after the ride home, and I snoozed on the sofa with Oreo as a blanket. When it was time to go to bed for the night, Greg still hadn’t appeared.

  Was it because I’d blurted out that I loved him? I could blame the surge of honesty on the drugs I’d been given, but drugs or not, what counted was the way he received the news. Did the fact he hadn’t shown mean that he hadn’t wanted to hear any such confession from me?

  But he’d spent the night in my room. The nurse had told me so.

  “Held your hand all night,” she said with a smile. “He must be pretty special.”

  I’d just grinned.

  Now I was confused.

  I had a fragmented night’s sleep, waking myself whenever I moved my arm, taking pain meds on my schedule, not the doctor’s. When I woke Thursday feeling groggy and drained, I could sense that the apartment was empty. I glanced at the clock by the bed. Six thirty! We were about to open.

  I dragged myself from bed and tried to get ready for the day with one hand. Since I wasn’t supposed to take a shower and get the cast wet, I tried washing up in the sink. I couldn’t wring out the washcloth except by pressing it against the sink, which was very unsatisfactory, so I dripped all over myself. I couldn’t hook my bra. I could barely pull up my underwear and khaki slacks. When I wiggled the slacks in place, I was panting from the effort. Then I couldn’t zip or button them. Shoes and socks were beyond me.

  I did manage to brush my hair, though it still looked as if it would win a contest for the messiest rat’s nest. I put on some blush and swiped some mascara over my lashes so I wouldn’t look as miserable as I felt. I slid my left arm into a man’s jacket that had been left at the café and held it to my right shoulder. It was
large enough to hide the clothing malfunctions so I could go downstairs without feeling like a stripper. I had to give my slacks several tugs to keep them on my hips as I descended the steps.

  Pull up pants, lunge for slipping jacket. Pull up pants, lunge for slipping jacket.

  I eased in the café’s back door and into my office. I peered out. The new server, Lou Reynolds, moved past, serving booth one. Lindsay appeared, four plates balanced in her hands. Mary P was seating a couple in booth five. I felt tears of gratitude and love as I watched my sister and my Godmother taking over my responsibilities for me.

  I waited behind the door until Mary P began to turn away from the new customers. I called her name softly. She looked around, as if she was uncertain she had heard her name. I signaled to her, and she hurried to me. I shut us both in the office.

  “What are you doing down here?” she scolded as she gave me a careful hug.

  “Do me up. Please!” I dropped the jacket, turned my back, and hiked up my Carrie’s Café shirt, this one Caribbean blue with the unoccupied sleeve flapping forlornly. She laughed and stuck the hooks and eyes of my bra together. I turned around, and she zipped and buttoned me.

  I handed her my old sneaks, the good pair having been reduced to a single shoe two nights ago. She went down on a knee and slid the shoes on one at a time, making me think of a shoe salesman back when shoe salesmen still helped customers try on shoes.

  “Lindsay’s working tables.” The import of that fact finally penetrated my foggy brain.

  Mary P nodded.

  “And you’re here.”

  She nodded again.

  “That means no Andi.” Both anger and concern rode me. “Where is that girl?”

  Mary P looked as concerned as I felt. “I don’t know, and I’m getting more worried all the time.”

  “You think she’s not just being a temperamental teen? Something is truly wrong?” There was Bill kill and there was The Pathway. Either could put her in a very uncomfortable place. Dangerous even. “I need to call Clooney.”

  Mary P patted my shoulder. “I’ve got to get back to work. The place is jumping. I think you’ll have to write Chaz a thank-you note.”

  “What?”

  “It’s all that Internet publicity, and he’s responsible.”

  I snorted. “Like I always thank someone who almost kills people I care for. Go save the café from being overrun while I call Clooney.”

  I didn’t even have time to punch in his number before he stomped into the cafe, looking like Chief Thundercloud wearing an Eagles sweatshirt instead of an Indian blanket. I walked out to meet him.

  “She never came home,” he said without preamble. “I sat up waiting for her and fell asleep around two. I overslept. Is she here?”

  Uh-oh. “I’m sorry. She’s not.”

  “When I get my hands on that boy …”

  I was glad I wasn’t Bill.

  “If it is that boy.” And he looked even more worried.

  “I’m assuming you called Bill’s home?”

  “Several times. I got to speak to Billingsley Lindemuth Junior. That was a rare pleasure.” He glared at me. “Why would anyone name a child Billingsley? And why would others pass it on as if it were a name to be proud of?”

  Keeping him on task, I asked, “And what did Billingsley Junior say?”

  “The kid was home all night. If Junior was the only one who told me that, I’d disbelieve on general principles, but when I went to the house, his wife said the same thing. She was very sweet and helpful.”

  “What? Moms don’t lie for their kids?”

  He made a frustrated sound, stalked to the counter, and took the empty stool beside the ever-present Mr. Perkins. I followed him over. He looked so upset and angry that even the garrulous Mr. P didn’t try to talk to him.

  “I don’t know why I’m worried,” he said. “It’s not like she’s my kid. And she got herself all the way across country from Arizona on her own.”

  “You love her,” I said.

  He snorted. “Right. I want pancakes and sausage, double syrup.”

  I left him in Mary P’s care and went to the cash register, where I thought I could be of some service.

  Wherever she is, Lord, keep her safe!

  Greg didn’t come in for breakfast, and I thought of him at home, eating cereal. I’d been right. He didn’t need me or the café anymore. He was never coming back.

  “There’s a time to every purpose under heaven.”

  Those words Clooney had quoted to me when he gave me the watch were from Ecclesiastes, though without doubt Clooney knew them from the old folk song. They were probably written by King Solomon. I thought Ecclesiastes and its writer very melancholy and pessimistic. You try your best, he wrote, and it’s all meaningless, a chasing after the wind. “All is vanity” was how the old King James Bible put it.

  I’d like to find out if being in love was meaningless, if being loved was chasing after the wind. Was it heartbreak, or could it be like the romance novels said, just not quite so over the top? Real life as moonlight and roses? It was broken wrists and missing girls, that I knew. I sighed. Maybe the writer of Ecclesiastes was right.

  A psalm that usually comforted me came to mind, and I all but snarled inside. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear from the Lord. “Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.”

  Lord, I’ve got to tell You, I’m getting very tired of waiting.

  Your times are in My hands.

  I blinked. This hearing voices was getting old fast.

  The café door opened, and in walked my mother and her husband.

  38

  Where were the people you could trust? You asked a simple favor or issued a straightforward order, and all you got was incompetency and questions. Had he asked for something difficult? He had not.

  “Take care of it,” he’d said.

  “Here’s my decision,” he’d said.

  “Find it,” he’d said. “Find her.”

  But did his man honor his word or do as asked?

  He would not live with the results of ineptness any more than he’d live with someone wrestling him for control. He was not a man who accepted halfhearted allegiance. He was the man in charge.

  He was the one with the skill and intellect to lead.

  He was the one who deserved the financial benefits of his leadership.

  He must not be challenged.

  He would not share.

  He was God’s archangel.

  39

  Andi huddled in the darkness of the closet and listened to her stomach growl. She’d been here two days, and it felt like forever. At least she thought it was two days and today was Friday. She was so hungry, but there was nothing in this place but beer. What kind of a diet was that? And how long before you died of starvation?

  She’d brought some snacks with her—chips, a six-pack of Sprite, a small box of Cheez-Its, a couple of Hershey’s chocolate bars—but they were all gone. She couldn’t leave to get more until she was sure he was gone. Trouble was, how could she know he was gone if she stayed here? She wiped angrily at the tears.

  No crying, Andi. No more crying! Just suck it up.

  She had to use the bathroom, but that meant walking out into the bedroom. Sure, it was shadowy there since she’d closed the curtains, but compared to the comforting dimness of the closet, it looked like high noon on a sunny summer day.

  From where she sat, she had the company of the flickering light of the muted television. It was sort of interesting trying to figure out what people were saying when she didn’t dare allow any volume for fear someone might hear and come to investigate.

  Watching it was what had kept her from going nuts. She’d bitten off her nails and jumped at every little sound. The rumble of her stomach was the loudest noise by far. Sometimes she slept huddled on the closet floor. It made the time pass and kept her from thinking about how hungry she was.

  But now her bladder was sending very
full signals to her brain.

  You can go to the bathroom, stupid! It’s safe. No one knows you’re here.

  She moved to the closet door and peeked out. No one was there. She knew that before she looked. She also knew she didn’t have to stay in the closet. She just felt safer in there. The darkness and the small space were sort of like curling under the covers at night after a bad dream.

  It was all Becca’s fault, the whole awful mess. Andi struggled hard not to hate her sister, but at times like this it was a losing battle. If Becca hadn’t found that stuff about The Pathway online and then been dumb enough to fall for it, they’d all be safe in their own house in the old neighborhood. She’d be sleeping in her old bed, going to school with her old friends, maybe dating.

  Instead she was hiding in a closet and Becca was a mom twice over. Who knows, maybe three times by now, and she wasn’t even twenty-two yet.

  When the family had been driving from Philadelphia to The Pathway’s compound not much more than three years ago, Andi’d still fought her parents’ decision.

  “Mom, this is a polygamous group! Dad’s going to take other wives.”

  Her mother laughed. “Oh, Andi, don’t be foolish. Of course he’s not. I’ve told him that if he takes other wives, I’ll take other husbands.”

  “That’s not the way it works.” Andi felt as if she alone could see past the reflection in a pane of one-way glass to perceive The Pathway for the warped and corrupt religion it was. The others saw the image Michael wanted them to see. “It’s the men who have multiple partners, Mom, not the women.”

  Her mother and father had grinned at each other like the idea of multiple partners was ridiculous. But Andi was seated behind her father and saw his face in the rearview mirror when he looked forward. There was something in his expression, a slyness maybe, that made her know he planned to enjoy all the perks at The Pathway.

  And he had. Three young wives at last count. Maybe more by now. And her mother had been devastated by his perfidy.

  With each new wife, she grew paler and more despondent. By the time she was sent to the tiny infirmary where Andi worked, helping the one woman in the compound who was a registered nurse, Mom had lost her will to live.