by J. D. Monroe
Georgia got her pretty good with the knife, but the bleeding has finally stopped. The edges are clean, and she’s still breathing, so it can’t have been that bad. Anyway, it’s not like she can afford an emergency room visit, and she’s not about to ask Mike to pay for one. She grits her teeth, douses it with peroxide, and spits every bit of profanity she knows. She wraps it and gingerly tests her weight. It hurts like hell, but she can walk.
“Is someone after her? I can’t deal with this, Mike. You need to handle this. It’s me or her,” Melinda screeches. “You decide.”
There’s a sound of a door slamming, and a car starts in the driveway.
Good Lord. Did she walk into an episode of Springer or what? Melinda’ll fit in just fine with the rest of the batshit crazy Dupree women if she sticks around.
Charity tugs on the last clean shirt she’s got and walks out of the bathroom.
Mike is pouring a cup of coffee in the kitchen and shaking his head. When he sees her, he starts to pour another. “Did you hear all that?”
“Kind of hard not to,” Charity says. “Sorry to start World War Three.”
Mike shakes his head. “Mel’s good people. Ex-husband was deep into drugs and put her through seven kinds of hell before she finally left him. She doesn’t want any more trouble.”
“I understand,” Charity replies. “Things kind of went tits up with the case, and I just need somewhere to lay my head for a couple of hours. Then I’ll be on my merry way.”
“That’s fine,” he says, but his brow furrows. “Look, you know I love ya. But this can’t be a regular thing. There’s a reason I didn’t follow the family business. I like what I’ve got here, and I can’t have hunters using this as a way station. You have to understand.”
“I know,” she says. A pang of guilt hits her, though she’s too tired to spare it more than a passing thought. “I promise. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
Mike makes up his spare bedroom, which is overflowing with still-packed cardboard boxes from his last move. She doesn’t even make it under the covers before she falls asleep, Colt lying inches from her outstretched hand.
It’s past four in the afternoon when she wakes up to the sound of her phone ringing.
“Errrlo,” she mumbles.
“Miz Pierson?”
“Whozzis?”
“This is Bert over at Tire Haven,” the mechanic drawls. “I’ve got your truck ready to go, whenever you’re ready to pick it up. New windshield looks real nice. Threw in a free oil change for ya, too.”
She sits straight up and instantly regrets it. Her head pounds. She grits her teeth as she tries to make sense of the conversation. “I don’t understand. I haven’t had the money. Y’all were holding it until I got the cash.”
Bert chuckles. “Someone stopped by and gave us her credit card. It swiped just fine, so I didn’t ask no questions,” he says. “Told us to go on and do the repairs. Even got you a lifetime warranty on them tires.”
“Did you get a name?”
“Browning,” he reads. “Friend of yours?”
She has to think for a while. She isn’t sure what Georgia is now. Hell, she isn’t sure what she wants Georgia to be. Partner? Friend? Attempted murder kind of puts a damper on relationships, but everything up to till then…
“Something like that,” Charity says. “I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
40. FULL CIRCLE
IT FEELS LIKE A YEAR since she was last on her own, but she and Georgia haven’t even been together a week. Now it feels strange, rolling up these Carolina highways all alone in the big red truck. She plays her music as loud as she likes and stops at a truck stop off I-77 for a hamburger and the saltiest French fries she’s ever eaten. It tastes like heaven on a plate, and she orders a piece of pecan pie for the road.
She still hasn’t heard from Georgia, at least not directly. Bert confirmed that a pretty redhead had stopped by and paid for the repairs to her truck. Maybe she planned it all along, and maybe this is Georgia’s way of making amends. Who knows? Frankly, Charity doesn’t care. She’s got her wheels back, and she’s out on the open road where she belongs.
And yet, it doesn’t feel quite right. Despite herself, she kind of enjoyed having someone around, even if her latest partner tried to murder her in her sleep. Shit happens.
It’s almost eleven when she gets back to Brentwood, but the hospital has visiting hours until midnight. She considers calling Officer Hayes just to yank his chain but decides fate may take it personally. Besides, there’s no one in town to bail her out. On the way into the hospital, she snags a newspaper off a waiting room table and heads up to the fourth floor.
In the elevator, she skims the front page. It features two pictures—Patrick Bell and Professor Calloway. College student admits to multiple slayings. Claims he was coached by professor at Brentwood University. Calloway died of injuries sustained in his arrest. She snorts a laugh. The article goes on to detail a shootout between Calloway and the police. There’s no mention of her or Patience. Thank God. It quotes Officer Ruben Hayes at great length. Case of a lifetime.
Patience’s room is quiet when she enters, old Law and Order reruns playing silently on the wall-mounted TV. Her sister is asleep with a People magazine folded over her chest. She looks pale but reasonably healthy. No breathing tubes, just a heart monitor hooked to a white nub on her finger. There are no flowers or Get Well Soon cards to liven up the stark room. Who’s going to send them?
She sits in the uncomfortable chair next to the bed and props her feet up on the thick plastic bed rail. Patience stirs quietly, then settles. Charity smiles and lets her head rest against the chair. She dozes off, wakes to see a nurse checking the monitor, and dozes off again. She wakes again when something cold hits her face. It drips off her nose and down her shirt. She creaks one eye open to see Patience sitting up in bed with a cup of ice, throwing the tiny chips at her sister.
“Were you raised in a barn?” Patience mutters. She reaches over and pushes Charity’s feet off the bed.
“Good morning to you, too,” Charity says, putting her feet back up
“You left me here,” Patience says.
“Had a possessed knife to deal with, Patience. And I did check on you first. You were just stoned out of your mind,” Charity says. Her sister rolls her eyes. “You feel all right?”
“I got shot, dumbass. How do you think I feel?” Patience says. Despite her tone, she grins and unsnaps the corner of her hospital gown. A red wire taped to her chest gets in the way, and she peels it off. It starts one of the machines beeping, which makes Charity’s heart skip a dozen beats. A nurse runs in.
“Miss Dupree, you can’t—”
“I damn well can, I’m a paying customer,” Patience says. “My heart is obviously still beating.” She peels back one of the dressings to show a neat hole.
The nurse fusses over her. “Miss Dupree!”
“Calm your tits,” Patience says, batting the poor nurse’s hands away.
“Miss Dupree, they’ll have to restrain your hands if you don’t—”
Charity bursts out laughing. “Good luck with that,” she says. The nurse gives her an eat shit and die look. “Just leave her alone. It’s her own fault if she hurts herself. She can’t afford to sue you. Trust me.”
The nurse throws her hands up in exasperation and storms out.
“Bad girl,” Charity says. “You wanna get out of here?”
“Hell, yes.”
The staff protest, but short of arresting her again, they can’t force Patience to stay. While Patience unleashes a profanity-laced diatribe about her rights as a red-blooded American, Charity ducks into a staff room and steals a pair of faded green surgical scrubs. Thanks to a lingering painkiller buzz, Patience is ready to walk out with the hospital gown flapping open over her bare ass, but Charity makes her put the pants on before walking out the door. When they get to the truck, Patience instinctively heads for the driver’s side, then stops and shake
s her head. She hobbles around the truck and waits for Charity to unlock the passenger’s side door.
“Been a while,” she says as she climbs awkwardly up into the seat.
“That it has,” Charity says. “I’m going to see Harmony. Do you want to go?”
Patience gives her a sharp look. “What are you going to tell her?”
“The truth,” Charity says. “That it’s over.”
For eight hours, it’s almost like old times. Charity drives them back to Calmet Creek to drop Patience at her new car. Patience claims she’s fine to drive, but her sister likes her pain meds, and there’s no telling what state of mind she’s really in. Charity follows her closely all the way to Raleigh.
They make town by three in the morning, and they find a cheap room at the Sunrise Inn, which is a one-star establishment if she’s ever seen one. Charity turns on the TV and finds the comedy channel, turns the volume low, and sinks into the bed. The silence is heavy and ponderous between them. If they were in a Lifetime movie, they’d talk out their feelings, forgive and forget. But there’s only light snoring from the other bed and the quiet chatter of the TV.
Strange. Even with Patience here, the room still feels empty. There’s something that’s been lost forever between them, and maybe that’s what she’s been missing all these months. As she lies there, tracing the rough-textured ceiling with her gaze, she wishes they could pretend they weren’t Charity and Patience. She wishes they could apologize and accept it. Now that they know the truth of what happened, Charity can almost let go of the things Patience said. But Patience is always going to see her as the reason their mother is gone. She will always remember the sight of Charity standing over Harmony with the rifle in hand. And Patience has never been one to forgive or forget. It’s just too big.
In the morning, they both dress in silence. Without discussing it, they head to the truck, and Charity drives the now-familiar route to the prison. As they check in, the uniformed officer looks at them appreciatively. “Been making quite a few visits,” he comments.
“What can I say? We can’t get enough of the ambience,” Patience says.
A guard walks them into the waiting room, where a family is already meeting in one corner. They’re all laughing and smiling, which makes it feel like they’ve stepped into a funhouse mirror.
Patience sits gingerly. “Don’t tell Mom I got shot.”
“Then don’t bring it up,” Charity says.
They wait for a solid fifteen minutes in the waiting room. Charity’s heart winds itself around her ribs, and she’s so tense she can barely sit still. When their mother shuffles into the room, escorted by a guard, Patience immediately stands to embrace her. Both of them look expectantly at Charity, but she remains in her seat.
Harmony sinks into the opposite seat and smiles. Her blue eyes glass over again. “My girls. It’s so good to see you.”
“All right with the waterworks,” Patience says. The tears even freak her out.
Harmony eyeballs Charity. “Your face looks like shit. What happened?” That’s more like their mother.
“We took care of the knife, that’s what happened,” Charity says.
“You found it?”
“We found it,” she says. She doesn’t mention the details. “I handled it.”
“You—you touched it?” Harmony says. “And you didn’t…”
“I said I handled it. Not a problem.”
Patience glances at her, eyebrows raised. They don’t need to know about Georgia or how the curse nearly had Charity following in her mother’s footsteps.
Charity takes out the newspaper from the hospital and slides it across the table, tapping her finger on Calloway’s picture. “You know this guy?”
The way Harmony’s eyes crinkle and bony jaw shifts, she knows him. “Not his name,” she says. “He was at the antique store in Tennessee. Showed the knife to Andy and made him a good deal.”
“Son of a bitch,” Charity says.
“Why?” Harmony asks.
“The knife was his,” Charity says. “He was using it to keep himself alive somehow. I’m guessing it had to do with all the sacrifices.”
Patience’s foot slams down on hers and she snaps, “Is that necessary?”
“Patience,” Harmony says. She fixes a cold gaze on Charity. “Is he dead?”
“Very.”
“Good.” She smiles, sharp and wolflike. “It’s wonderful to see you girls. Long as you two look out for each other, you can do anything.”
Great. Motivational speeches from her mother. Exactly what she needs.
“Patience, can I have a minute with your sister?”
Her sister narrows her eyes and looks at Harmony.
“Go on,” Harmony says. “You don’t always need to have your nose in everything.”
Patience shoves her chair back and walks over to the kid’s area, where she puts on a world-class pout.
Harmony pins Charity in place with her stare, and she feels like she’s ten years old again, right after she accidentally shot out the back window of Andy’s truck. Harmony simply sat there in pure silence for a solid ten minutes, until Charity tearfully admitted it, just to escape the tension.
“You asked me something the last time I was here,” Charity starts.
“I did.”
There’s no give in Harmony Pierson. No easing the tension, no don’t worry about it, I understand, and there never has been. Harmony would let her squirm on the hook as long as she’d squirm.
“I don’t hate you,” Charity says. Her throat closes like an egg is going down sideways, and her eyes sting. She stops and waits it out like a sneeze.
“You don’t have to lie to me, Charity Lee. I can see it all over your face,” Harmony says.
“I’m not lying,” she says. “I can’t forget what happened.”
“Neither can I,” Harmony says. “Believe me. I loved your daddy, and not a single day goes by that I don’t see what I did to him.”
“But I realize now that it wasn’t your fault,” Charity says. “And I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this anymore.”
“Well, I guess that’ll have to do,” Harmony says. She leans forward. “I know I was always tough on you, but I still love you.”
“I know you do,” she says. In your own, screwed-up way, I know you do. There’s a long silence, and she can’t choke the words out, no matter how much she knows she ought to. “I should probably go.”
Harmony smiles a little, but it’s a sad expression, that one corner of her mouth pulling down. “You girls watch each other’s backs.”
Charity lets out a heavy sigh that feels like a dam breaking as she hurries out of the room. She scribbles her name on the registry to sign out, then rushes out the front doors. She waits outside, leaning against the sun-warmed brick of the prison walls.
Where is the justice? Shouldn’t she feel better now that she has some sort of answer for Andy’s death? So much for closure.
Patience emerges ten minutes later. Her eyes are red, mascara smeared slightly under one eye. Charity ignores it, just this once. They drive back to the motel and sit silently in the truck.
Finally, Patience breaks the silence. “So I’m thinking we should call that lawyer again. We can reopen the case now that Mom is talking.”
She stops and stares at her sister. “I’m sorry, what?”
“We’re not letting our mother waste away in prison for something she didn’t do,” Patience says. “Now we both know it wasn’t her fault. Just like I told you.”
“So what the hell do you want to do about it?” Charity asks. “Because the one thing you can’t do here is tell the truth. I’m pretty sure possession isn’t a valid legal defense.”
“You could go on record and say it wasn’t her,” Patience says. “It was Calloway, and he threatened to kill you—”
“No,” Charity says. “I am not opening this up again.”
“So you’ll lie and kill and bleed for a compl
ete stranger, but you won’t lift one precious finger for your mother?” Patience says sharply. Her tone is acid and oh-so familiar; Charity heard it a thousand times as a kid coming out of Harmony’s mouth. “Good to know where your priorities are.”
She puts her hands up. “I’m not doing this with you again, Patience. You need to accept it.”
“And you need to not accept it,” Patience says. “She’s our mother, Charity.”
Charity sighs. “I love you, but it’s time for us to go our separate ways. We’re not good for each other.”
“Because you—”
“Because we can’t get along anymore. Because of this. Because we’re going to fight about this for the rest of our lives,” Charity says. “You and me are like gasoline and matches.”
Her sister sighs heavily, and there’s actually a tear dripping down her cheek. Patience is an Oscar-quality actress, but this seems good even for her. “You’re the only family I’ve got anymore.”
“I know,” Charity says. The words spill out of her, heart pounding. “But for you, family means you call the shots and I shut the hell up, and I can’t. Not anymore. You ever get in trouble, I’ll be there for you. I mean it. You call, and I’ll be there. But it’s time we see how life goes without being up each other’s asses for a while.”
She folds her arms over her chest to hide her shaking hands and takes a shallow breath. She just wants Patience to grudgingly agree, to hug it out and say she knows it’s for the best, but Charity Pierson doesn’t often get what she wants.
Despite herself, Charity wishes Patience would give in this one time. She doesn’t miss the fighting, but she misses her sister. She misses family. She misses the comfort of someone who knows her better than anyone in the world, who makes up half of her memories. She just wants things to be the way they were before, and they can never be. Too many old wounds, left to fester for years.
Patience digs her keys out of her bag and says, “If that’s what it means to you, then I guess that’s how it is.” She toys with her keys, and there’s something hanging back behind clenched jaws and inflated ego. Come on, Patience. Let it go. But Patience finally says, “See you around, Cherry Pie. Take care of yourself.”