Desperate Paths

by E. C. Diskin

  “Ginny?”

  She said nothing. He’d always stunned her to silence.

  “I just transferred here a couple of weeks ago. What a small world.” He sat on the pew, a few feet between them. She couldn’t contain the tears.

  “What is going on?” he asked, his voice low, his tone dripping with sincerity. She shook her head, unable to speak, and he slid closer along the smooth bench, putting his arm around her. “There, there,” he said. A woman a few rows ahead turned back, a silent suggestion to keep it down. He stood, offering his hand. “Come with me. Let’s talk in my office.”

  She scanned the room before moving. There were maybe five other parishioners, and they’d all stopped their own prayers to watch. She stood and followed.

  It was as if all the years just melted away. Sitting on a couch in his office, wiping away tears, watching him bolt the door. He offered her a drink and sat beside her. “Talk to me,” he said.

  She took it but couldn’t look at him. “My husband is going to leave me. I can’t have a baby.”

  “Well, that’s not true,” he said, with that paternal, all-knowing confidence. “When couples struggle, there’s a reason. God always has a reason.”

  “Simon says barrenness comes from a sinful heart.”

  He took a sip of scotch and leaned back. She instinctively sat forward. He talked for a long time, but she heard nothing. She downed her drink, holding out her glass for more. Soon after obliging, his hand was on her lower back—a slight rub. It would have been harmless, a comforting gesture if done by a friend. But he was no friend.

  “The miracle of life is a mystery, Ginny, but you must never give up.”

  She took a sip, trying to take comfort in his words.

  “Remember when we used to sit like this? All those hours working together?”

  It was a ridiculous question. A girl never forgets something like that.

  “Maybe it’s a sign—you coming here. Me finding you. I always wanted to take care of you, Ginny. You haven’t changed a bit,” he said, brushing the hair off her shoulder. “I was always so sorry for the way things turned out. I’ve missed you.”

  She took another sip.

  “I want to help,” he added. His hand made clear what would happen next.

  She didn’t flinch this time, but her heart raced as it had when she was sixteen. She had run from all the reminders of him and the church and everything that had happened. It felt like every decision she’d made since high school had been the wrong one. “Maybe I’m just getting what I deserve,” she whispered.

  He took her hand, his thumb stroking her skin. “You deserve to be happy, Ginny. I’ve always wanted what was best for you.”

  He leaned toward her. Everything about his proximity made her stomach turn, but she didn’t resist. In that moment, her alcohol-soaked brain believed that every bad decision, lie, and secret had led her right back to this man’s couch. Maybe it was where she was supposed to be.

  Ten minutes later someone knocked at the door. “Pastor Gary, they’re waiting for you in the choral room,” a woman said.

  “Coming,” he shouted.

  He dressed quickly and returned to his desk. “It was so great to see you again, Ginny. Please come back and visit, okay?”

  She was numb. “Sure,” she said, slipping her spaghetti strap back on her shoulder without looking at him. She’d gone to church and betrayed her vows with a man she hated even more than her father.

  “I’m here to help,” he said, returning to the couch. He offered a hand, pulled her to standing, and brushed some of her hair away from her face. “You’re so beautiful, Ginny.” He led her to the door, unbolted the lock. “You’re still my favorite girl.”

  She said nothing.

  “I’m going to pray for you,” he said. “If your marriage is meant to last, it will. And if you’re meant to have a child, you will. Remember, the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  She had walked through a downpour, sat in the car, dress soaked, gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white, and cried. Thunder boomed, and she pounded her fist against her head, vowing she would never speak to Pastor Gary again.

  But then, a miracle. She was soon pregnant again, and this time, it stuck. Simon stayed, and Mikey arrived—a son—what Simon had wanted most. It seemed like there would be a second chance to make her marriage work. It was impossible not to recall Pastor Gary telling her how the Lord worked mysteriously.

  She never wanted it to happen again. Whenever she looked at the pastor at church during the next three years and their eyes met, she’d quickly look away. But God knew something she didn’t, because even though she got pregnant four times over the next three years, they never lasted. One night, after attending a BBQ at a neighbor’s house, the host announced the impending arrival of another child. Ginny watched Simon’s face fall. He didn’t touch his food and barely spoke all night.

  After putting Mikey to bed, she found Simon, sulking in the dark.

  “You have a beautiful boy sleeping in that room,” she said, kneeling beside him. “Can’t that be enough?” She needed him to take care of them and love them. She and Mikey had nothing else.

  “I’m sorry. I’m forty-two years old. I thought this house would have been filled by now. I picked a young girl from a devout home. I thought . . .”

  She didn’t wait for him to finish. She slowly stood, went to the bedroom, and stood at the balcony door, looking up at the stars that held her secrets. Her plan—to avoid her own darkness by filling a home with light—was failing.

  Simon followed and stood beside her, brushing the hair from her face. “I need more.”

  She looked away.

  “You don’t take care of yourself. You . . .”

  She knew he felt trapped. He didn’t believe in divorce, but he wasn’t getting the bargain he’d hoped for.

  “I’m sorry,” she had whispered. She felt guilty for failing, for causing him pain. His needs came first. That was supposed to be her job, her greatest joy—she’d heard it since she was young. But she was angry. She hadn’t gotten what she wanted either. She’d been trapped by rules and force-fed this life. She’d run to this house and into his arms to escape, but nothing had worked. And she’d tried to be what he wanted. She’d quit her job. “Maybe we should get tested.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, raising his voice. “You know that’s not the way He intended.”

  It didn’t matter that Simon was a doctor. His faith ruled. It was the quality that made her parents happiest. Science was supposed to stay out of these affairs. But Ginny was a nurse. She knew that Simon might be the problem—probably a high yield of abnormal chromosomes in his sperm. After all, she’d only struggled to maintain a pregnancy when he was involved. But that would never be discussed. She knew what had to be done. “I’ll try harder,” she’d whispered.

  And so she had returned to Pastor Gary’s office—to that couch—until she found herself pregnant again. After a life of hearing that there was a reason for everything, that God had a plan, she convinced herself God was trying to help. In her heart, she knew it was a deal with the devil. But Simon would stay; Mikey would have a sibling. She was doing what had to be done.

  Unfortunately, Mikey had Gary’s dirty-blond hair, Lyla had his dimples, and they both had his freckles. When the tiny dots first started appearing on the kids’ noses, it felt almost supernatural—the universe warning her that secrets don’t stay buried forever. She’d searched Simon’s old photo albums, looking for freckles on his parents or siblings, anyone she could point to if he ever began to wonder who they looked like. Darius’s movie would end the deception. As soon as Simon learned of her history with the pastor, he’d see what was becoming more obvious with every passing year. The truth was hiding in plain sight.

  She wondered what Darius would think of her now. Barely functioning. He thought he’d saved her from Pastor Gary all those years ago. He had no idea that she and Gary were forever connected, that h
er entire life had evolved into a house of cards, built upon lies and secrets.

  She finally typed a quick reply to Darius’s message:

  I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll come see you tomorrow.

  She tried to imagine walking into his hospital room, facing him after everything she’d done. Would he take one look at her smile and know that it was a facade? Darius was the actor, but she needed to give the performance of a lifetime.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DAY FOUR

  Thursday, May 16

  WHEN BROOKLYN PULLED INTO THE hospital parking lot the next morning, the news trucks were gone. Darius had probably been released. She hoped that was it, rather than the more cynical thought that followed—that some other celebrity tragedy had simply pulled focus. She wondered, too, if she’d ever see Martin again, if she’d ever get to meet Darius.

  When she got to her dad’s room, she heard him yelling before she even stepped inside. He was cursing at someone. Brooklyn recognized the voice of one of the nurses. She quickly went in, hoping to calm him, but was met with a furious stare as he spit venom in her direction. “Not another one. Get out, all of you. Where’s my wife?”

  Brooklyn stepped forward. “It’s me, Dad, Brooklyn. I’m here.”

  “Dad?” he scoffed. “Don’t play mind games with me. I don’t care who you are. I told this one, I’m sick of all of you. Now get out of my room and tell my wife I’m ready to go.”

  Brooklyn stepped over to the nurse and spoke under her breath. “How long has he been this way?”

  “Ever since he woke this morning.”

  “Maybe I should call my sister, Ginny.”

  “Ginny?” her dad yelled. “She’s the reason I’m in here!”

  The nurse put her arm around Brooklyn’s shoulders. “Come on,” she said, walking her toward the hall. “It’s okay.”

  “What do I do?” Brooklyn asked. “Shouldn’t I try to make him understand who I am, and that Mom is gone?”

  “Let’s just let him rest a bit. The stress of realizing you’re confused can put a lot of strain on the body. I’m going to give him a sedative. Perhaps when he wakes again, he’ll be doing better.”

  It felt like yesterday’s progress had disappeared. She pulled out her phone and sent Ginny a text: Please come to the hospital. WE HAVE TO TALK! She wanted some answers—like why Ginny never showed up yesterday or even responded to her texts, why she hated their father, why he said he forgave her, what happened to his gun, why their mom had all those clippings from that clinic shooting . . . The questions felt endless. She’d searched the internet last night for information about the clinic shooting but learned nothing. The doctor had survived, the clinic had closed, a Walmart was built within the year.

  And her dad had just said Ginny was the reason he was in the hospital. What did that even mean? Did she cause his fall?

  Brooklyn’s heart raced; her throat began to contract. Suddenly dizzy, she quickly found a seat along the wall and put her head between her legs. If Ginny’d shot a man all those years ago, there was no way to know what she was capable of. Dad was hurt, his gun was missing. What did it all mean?

  She looked down at her phone, and three dots began dancing: a reply from Ginny. I’ll be there in two hours. I’m sorry about yesterday. And yes to lunch. We need to talk.

  It was after ten in the morning when Wilson finally went to the station. It had been a long twenty-four hours. He’d dropped Eddie at the treatment center in Fairfield before visiting Ginny’s house yesterday, but twenty minutes after he left her, he’d received a call from the intake counselor. Eddie had disappeared. The man on the line was defensive when Wilson’s anger flared. It wasn’t a jail. It was voluntary treatment. They couldn’t help someone who didn’t want to be there. Wilson then spent the entire day trying to find him. All his calls and texts to Eddie were ignored until, finally, around ten that evening, Eddie had sent a text: I’m fine. Back off.

  Around two o’clock in the morning, Wilson woke to pee—he never made it all the way through the night anymore—and looked into Eddie’s room on his way back to bed. He still wasn’t home, and Wilson couldn’t do as Eddie asked. His son was in trouble. He could feel it. There was no way to turn off the worry switch. Didn’t matter that Eddie was thirty-eight, at the age when he was supposed to do the worrying. He was an addict, and his life had long ago spiraled out of control.

  Wilson had driven around town, stopping at the few bars he knew in the area that would be open at that hour, but he didn’t find him. He even drove a couple of towns over to an abandoned apartment building known for addict squatters. He’d walked through those halls, stepping over desperate, strung-out bodies, and felt a tiny sense of relief when Eddie wasn’t there. But he didn’t know how much longer he could do this. He was seventy-two years old. He was starting to wonder if Eddie would die before he did.

  Wilson didn’t want to give up on his son, but it was obvious that he wasn’t helping. He’d arrogantly thought that as a man of law and order, he could control the situation. But that boy had been waging a war in his mind for years that no one else seemed to understand. He’d been impossible to reach since the day his mom had died, maybe before that.

  When Wilson returned home a little before four in the morning, Eddie was asleep in his bed. Wilson sat on the edge of the twin bed, brushing the hair from Eddie’s face, just like he’d done when he was a little boy. That’s when he saw the scrapes on his nose and cheek, his yellow sweatshirt dotted with blood. Probably another bar fight. He was a Jekyll and Hyde, a sweet, soft-spoken boy who cried during emotional movies and flew into bitter rages fueled by resentments and drugs. It was as if his mind were a teakettle sitting on a low flame, always just moments from the shriek.

  Wilson went straight to the coffee station before finding Donny in his office. “So you all solve the Woods case yet?”

  “Not yet,” Donny said.

  “Roger get Woods’s yearbook from his dad?”

  “He didn’t have them. The boy took all his stuff when he moved away.”

  “What about our stalker in LA? She have an alibi?”

  “Still working on it.”

  Wilson wondered if anything would get done after he retired. “Well, what about the screenplay—you read it yet?” he asked, exasperated.

  “Never arrived,” Donny said.

  “What the heck?” He went back to his own desk, found his notes, and called the agent, something Donny should have done yesterday. It was two hours earlier in LA, and no one answered. “Please give me a call first thing,” he said in a voice mail message. “We’re still waiting for that screenplay. Maybe you wrote down my email wrong.” He rattled off the address again before hanging up.

  Collapsing into his swivel chair, he turned on the computer and checked his email. The screenplay had finally arrived after midnight. No apology for the delay. “Typical Hollywood,” he muttered to Donny. He assumed all those types acted as if they were the center of the universe.

  Wilson forwarded a copy to Donny and opened the document. Finally, maybe they’d catch a break. The phone rang, and as soon as Wilson answered, Martin Woods spoke without introduction. “What are you doing about my son’s case?”

  “Hello, Mr. Woods. We’re working on it. How’s your son doing this mornin’?”

  “Better. He’s finally awake. Which is why you need to protect him.”

  “Mr. Woods, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. We’ve spoken to the hospital staff. No visitors other than you are allowed while we run down some leads.”

  “You have leads then?”

  Wilson couldn’t admit that they were no closer than they’d been two days ago. “Nothing I’m ready to share. But trust me, I wanna get this shooter as much as you do.”

  “I doubt that. And I’m here at the hospital. Nothing would prevent someone from showing up and trying to finish what he started. There should be a guard outside the room. Someone with a gun walked in the front door of the hos
pital last night.”

  “What? Rog!” he yelled out the door of his office. Roger was walking by and stopped. “You get a report of a gunman at Burns Memorial last night?”

  Roger shook his head while Martin continued to speak in the sheriff’s ear. “Security guard told me. I’ve made a point of getting friendly with the men by the front entrance. Some man walked in with a gun in his hand last night around two in the morning. The guard asked him to stop, man panicked and ran out of the building. They never caught up with him.”

  “I’ll be right over there, Martin. Did the guard tell you anything about the man?”

  “Just that he was middle-aged and white. For all I know, that man wanted to come finish off my son.”

  “I’m on my way. Now that Darius is awake, I can finally talk to him about what he might have seen or heard and anyone he thinks we should consider. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  Wilson hung up, then stood to leave. “Hey, Donny, I just forwarded the email from Woods’s agent to you. I can’t read on the computer anyway. Make me a printout, okay? How about you do some reading? You’re the movie fan, after all. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  Brooklyn’s dad was asleep, and she was watching TV with the sound turned low when Ginny arrived. She clicked off the television and stood, ready to battle. But Ginny came at her before she could say a word and wrapped her arms around Brooklyn. “I’m really sorry for how I’ve treated you,” Ginny said, still holding on.

  Brooklyn slowly patted her back, unsure how else to react to such uncharacteristic kindness. “It’s okay.” She wondered if alcohol were involved in this sudden shift, though she didn’t smell it and Ginny didn’t seem drunk. Just different.

  “I’m a terrible sister,” Ginny whispered before finally releasing Brooklyn from the embrace.

  It felt monumental. Ginny never acted as if they were family at all. Brooklyn smiled and held her hand for a moment longer. “It’s been hard on all of us. Mom. Now Dad. I really want to deal with this together, okay?”