by Kay Stockham
Marley wandered through the big, silent house, remembering better times. Christmases and birthdays, sleepovers with friends. The perfect family her parents had demanded they be up until the pressure had turned her to rebellion. The need to get out of the house, away. The need to lash out and become her own person.
Books and magazines declared the teenage years problematic for mothers and daughters. But this had been so much more. The fights, the arguments. Not being allowed to do something because her mother was afraid of what might happen. Because she was afraid of what people would say, think. Afraid to do anything but live by other people’s standards and rules.
Her foot hit something and with a start, Marley looked up, the ornate staircase a showpiece of stained, hand-carved wood and perfectly painted risers. Symbol for her father’s upper-middle-class family. A big, riverfront home, nice cars, the so-called perfect life. Public images upheld at all costs, any personal dirt swept under the rugs and into closets if at all possible. She’d changed that. Made their private life public because her father’s running mates had harped on her pregnant state, his son’s trip to jail and his wife’s sad inability to cope. There were times she was surprised her father was still around. Times she was amazed that he hadn’t packed up and left them all to escape the shame of it.
Marley stood at the top of the stairs. She walked down the hall to her old bedroom, nothing like the way it had when she’d lived there. Now it, too, was the image of perfection. No hint of the past or what had happened remained. Nothing to show that she’d ever been part of their lives, no scarlet letter to mark her disgrace.
Back in the hallway, her parents’ bedroom door was shut. She tiptoed over, hesitated, then slipped inside the darkened interior. The shades were drawn, her mother asleep in the four-poster bed.
Frowning, Marley followed her instincts, knowing, deep down, she was right. In the attached bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet, taken aback when she didn’t find what she expected.
Where were they? She moved to the linen closet. Nothing? Could she be wrong?
Marley reentered the bedroom and crossed to her mother’s nightstand. The top drawer contained nothing but an old bestseller, lotion, lip balm. A few other odds and ends like pens and a small notebook. Her mother’s Bible. No pills.
She leaned over the side of the bed, kissed her mother on the cheek. “Forgive me, Mama.”
Marley turned to leave, but her leg caught on the edge of the bottom drawer. One of two she hadn’t opened. Hesitating, feeling guilty, she slowly bent to close it. She had no right to look through her mother’s things. But she couldn’t stop herself. A thick throw was folded neatly and tucked behind it…
A small, pink plastic container full of little brown pharmacy bottles. Marley pulled the box from the drawer and lifted the lid.
Eight. Eight bottles inside. She made note of the names, but other than a few from commercials repeatedly playing on television, she didn’t recognize them.
Blinking back tears, she repeated the names over in her head, trying to memorize them, noting that they were from three different doctors, two different pharmacies.
She ran through the names again, finally remembered the paper and pen in the top drawer and scrambled to write down the information with hands that shook.
It was up to her. She had to do what was right. For her family. Herself. Protect everyone involved because she hadn’t done that the first time around. How many pills did it take to keep her mother away from the edge of insanity? The insanity Marley had caused?
Deep down she knew her father would never support her. He’d continue to pretend everything was fine, even if she confronted him with the evidence she held in her hands. She didn’t know which of her parents was more fragile. Her mother had her pills to see her through the hard times, but her father couldn’t work any harder than he already did to bury his emotions and his family’s problems. It was entirely up to her to set things right and do what had to be done.
But where did she begin?
FOUR DAYS LATER Barry hesitated outside Dr. Steinman’s office door, then forced himself to knock and go in.
“Mr. Buchanan, come in. My service said you were on your way to see me.”
He shut the door and crossed the room to shake hands with the doc. “Thanks for working me into your schedule.”
“No, problem. It’s good to see you again. Have a seat. Did you enjoy the fish? Beau said he was taking some home to you.”
“It was…fine.”
The doctor’s brows lowered as he caught on to Barry’s mood. “I see. I take it this is a serious matter to have you dropping by without Beau. Did something happen? Is Beau all right?”
Barry seated himself in one of the chairs across from the doc’s desk, then just as quickly jumped to his feet and strode to the window. “He’s…Yeah.”
“Perhaps you’d like to discuss your thoughts about your son’s condition? What it’s been like dealing with Beau’s amnesia?”
He nodded. “I need some advice about—about that.”
“Absolutely. What’s the problem?”
“He wants answers. Answers to things I can tell him, but I’m not sure if he’s ready to hear it all. Important things that would upset him.”
“Letting patients remember on their own or slowly is recommended for a lot of reasons, Mr. Buchanan. If there’s something in particular on your mind, we have procedural ways of dealing with it. I’d be happy to speak with Beau about it during our next session. It’s best if the information is layered into the conversation slowly so that I can gauge his reaction and ensure that he’s able and ready to cope with the news. If it helps you, you’ve done the right thing by not telling him whatever it is you think would upset him.”
He wasn’t so sure. Barry wiped a hand over his face, smoothing it around his neck to squeeze. The boy he’d brought home from Germany would be the one to pay the price. A setback, the risk of seizures. And when the press found out—he didn’t want to imagine how bad the media frenzy would be. Beau was gone and nothing would bring him back. But now it was up to Barry to make things right by protecting the boy left in his care. In the meantime he had to find out where Beau’s body had been buried, and prepare to bring his son home when the truth became known.
Barry slid his hand into his pocket, holding on to his inhaler because he could feel the vise forming around his chest. He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun in the window, and reminded himself that he was fine now. Stronger. He’d had time to cope. Time to rest and come to terms with the news. He’d gone back on his medication to get his asthma under control, mourned in his dark, quiet bedroom. Now it was time to deal with facts.
“Mr. Buchanan? You made this trip for a reason. What does your son need to be told?”
His thumb rubbed the hard plastic of the inhaler. “He needs…He needs to know that he lost his best friend in the explosion.” The words hurt. He hated misleading the doctor, hated lying and wanted to tell him everything, but because of the circumstances there was a good chance the doc would feel compelled to inform the authorities, and that wasn’t a risk he would take. If it were Beau’s mental well-being at stake, he’d want it put before everything else, including himself. “He needs to try to remember him because if he does…it would answer a lot of his questions.”
“I see. Can you tell me a bit about this person? I take it he was a soldier, as well?”
Barry nodded. He should just open his mouth and tell the doc everything, but it was best this way. “They were friends and—they even looked a lot alike.” Barry swung around to face the doc. “Like brothers, nearly twins. They were close, Doc, and he needs to remember him soon. The sooner, the better.”
“And his friend’s name?”
“Jack.” Barry swallowed the lump in his throat, pulling the inhaler from his pocket. He pulled off the tip and ignored the sting of tears in his eyes. “Master Sergeant Jack Brody.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A W
EEK LATER BARRY stared down at the newspaper a long time after Jack had turned pale-faced and sweaty and stalked out of the grocery store. Beside photos of the changing October foliage and recommended dishes for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, a separate headline read that six more American soldiers were dead. His heart ached for their parents, for the pain they’d suffer on a daily basis from this time forward. For the pain he suffered himself with every beat of his heart.
His son—His son had been one of those boys and he hadn’t even known it.
Beau’s friend was getting better. Eating more. Getting more inquisitive. It was only a matter of time before Jack remembered enough to understand why his memories didn’t match the snapshots of Beau’s life. Then Jack would know the truth, that he’d survived the suicide bomber while Beau had died. That somewhere along the way they’d been mixed up.
How many people resembled each other in the world? Most were blood relatives of some sort, but some weren’t. Just like Jack and Beau. They’d been so similar in size and height, nearly identical to those who didn’t know them well. Beau’s e-mails had been full of his and Jack’s pranks and practical jokes.
Side by side they’d been quite a sight, not enough to fool him or Beau’s mother, but that close.
His thoughts returned to Jack, whether or not he should go after him or leave the boy alone and let him get some air. Dr. Steinman said he’d begin to talk to the boy about Jack at the next session. A detail here, a nudge there.
He’d worked hard to stress the differences between the two boys to the doc in the hopes of helping Jack separate himself from Beau in his mind. Begin to realize that things weren’t adding up.
So far Jack’s memories were of growing up. Of his brother, Joe, the one who’d gone to prison for killing his baby girl. What would happen when Jack remembered his teenage years? The time during which the murder had taken place? He wouldn’t understand, would mourn the baby all over again and get upset as he rightly should. He didn’t know how else to help Jack. Didn’t know if he was doing the right thing.
Barry’s gaze focused on the newspaper and he realized the answer was right there on the front page. The family’s grief and heartache appeared in full color and sold for a mere dollar and change. But how cruel was it to let Jack’s family go on believing him dead?
He’d changed his mind a million times, picked up the phone to call the doc at least once an hour since. But every time he’d hung up, knowing Jack couldn’t handle that yet. He wasn’t well enough. And if the media got wind of the story, every newspaper and TV station in the world would show it. Vultures waiting for a story. He couldn’t do that to Jack. The boy didn’t deserve it, especially not after helping Beau and Barry to find their way back to one another.
Beau had told him Jack had left town the moment he turned eighteen. How he’d begged his father to come with him, but the man had chosen a murderer over Jack. How could he push the boy into remembering a family like that?
“Excuse me. Sir?”
Barry started, then moved out of the way of the young mother pushing an overloaded cart and two kids. The woman had red hair, long and curly like Marley Pierce’s.
How strange was it that Jack seemed drawn to the woman, as well? Nothing good could come of that. Especially now. Jack hadn’t said much about her lately, but sometimes that said more than words could.
Barry wiped a shaking hand under his nose and went back to his shopping. God had seen him through some tough times in the past, and He’d see him through this, too. He just had to believe that this had happened for a reason. That he was supposed to help get Jack back on his feet. Thinking that, believing that, was the only way he could put one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward. He’d find out why when the time was right.
BEAU SAT UNDER A SHADE TREE outside the grocery store and took in the small town. He’d gone into the store with Pop and made it as far as the office at the front, but the farther he’d walked, the more anxious he’d felt. And then he’d seen the headlines about the soldiers who’d died and been sick in an instant, the suffocating lack of oxygen making his head whirl.
A baby had screamed from somewhere in the store and he’d turned, desperate to find it, keep it safe—only to realize the few people around who’d noticed his rapid about-face eyed him with leery looks that said they thought he was several cards short of a whole deck.
On the bench he felt fine, making him wonder if he shouldn’t get his butt back inside and face the crowd, push through the gut-clenching fear and be done with it. He sat forward, his hands locked on the wooden slats beneath him, legs jelly. Go on. Do it.
“Come on, do it.”
“No.”
“You’re going to blow my chance with her because of a few technicalities?”
He stared at the back of the guy’s head and watched as he dressed in desert fatigues. “I just got off duty.”
“It’s not like you haven’t pulled a double before. Come on, do this for me. She’s a nice girl.”
“Then why is she going out with you?”
“I asked myself the same question, which is why since she said yes, I don’t want to blow it. They’ll never know.”
“Okay, whatever.”
The guy pulled his arm back in a “yes!” motion. “Thanks, man. I’ll make it up to you. Now, all we have to—”
A short, muffled cry sounded behind him. Jerking out of his daze, Beau saw a blond woman stumble and fall to the ground. Marley’s friend.
He hurried over to her. “Are you okay?”
Angel rubbed her ankle. “Yes.”
“What happened?”
She gave him a mulish glare, her features pinched with pain. “I saw you sitting there and wanted to throw a rock at you for making Marley cry, and next thing I knew I twisted my ankle.”
Beau knelt down beside her, hiding a smile when it occurred to him Marley and her friend weren’t that graceful. “Sounds like your evil thoughts caught up with you. And I’m sorry I made Marley cry. Come on, let me help you up.”
“I can get—Ow. Oh, ow!”
Eyeing the foot she rubbed, he winced. “That ankle’s already swelling. Could be broken.”
“It’s not. It’s just—” She looked around, a bright flush to her otherwise pale cheeks. She lifted a painted finger and pointed. “Help me over to the bench. I’ll sit there until it stops hurting.”
“How about I take you to a doctor instead? I think there’s an urgent-care clinic around here somewhere.”
“It’s fine.”
“You got a thing against doctors?”
“Only when they’re poking at me.”
“Yeah, well, that I can understand. I’ve had enough of that myself.” He grabbed her elbow and pulled her to her feet, limping beside her until she hopped her way over to the bench. By the time they got there she was trembling and biting her lip. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to—”
“No.”
He settled her, then left long enough to cross the street.
She needed an ice pack or a bag of frozen vegetables to keep the swelling down. He eyed the grocery door momentarily. No, no way.
Outside the store were a couple of soda machines. His best option at the moment. He bought a bottle and retraced his steps, his mind crowded with questions Angel could answer about Marley since she wasn’t speaking to him.
“Here.” He lifted her foot, noting that she’d removed her shoe and sock, and carefully sat down on the opposite end of the bench, gently propping her foot higher by placing it on his knee. That done, he held the cold bottle against her ankle and heard her hiss of pain over the crackling of the dry leaves blowing all around them. “Sure you don’t need that doctor?”
She leaned her head back and took a deep breath, eyes closed. “No, I—It’s feeling better, and…thanks, okay? There, I said it. Just don’t get any ideas that we’re friends or anything.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He turned on the bench to face her
. “Did we ever meet? Back then?”
Settling herself more comfortably, Angel blinked at him. “No—because if we had, I’d have set you straight on a few things.”
He chuckled and noticed a corresponding smile on her lips, figuring the pain of her ankle was lessening. “I don’t doubt that.”
“I knew the moment she called from her grandmother’s house and said she’d met you that you were going to hurt her.” She turned her gaze out toward the town. “I didn’t grow up on Riverfront like Marley, but I saw how her parents and half the town put her on a pedestal.”
“Were you disappointed in her, too?”
That earned him a glare. “I was glad she’d finally broken free of the chain around her neck and had fun for once in her life. Just sorry it had to be with you.”
He winced. “And now? She won’t talk to me.”
“Do tigers lose their stripes?” Angel sighed and wriggled her foot without grimacing. “Marley loves what she does, but do you really think she wants to work sixteen-hour days? Whether she realizes it or not, she’s trying to claw her way back up that stinking pedestal and she’ll never make it. Which is why I want you to listen to me, Beau Buchanan. If you hurt Lucy again, if you ruin what little of the so-called reputation that she’s managed to rebuild, Clay will be the least of your worries. Hell hath no fury like a best friend scorned.”
“I understand.” He nodded once. “Lucy?”
She waved a negligent hand. “Inside joke.”
Beau stared at her, glad Marley had a friend like Angel to look after her. Everyone needed someone like that. Someone to see them for who they are, not what other people thought of them or wanted them to be.
“How bad was it?” he asked finally. Unable to bear the thought of Marley in pain, he locked his jaw. “When she lost the baby. How bad was it?”
Angel looked down at her hands and released a soft breath. “Bad. She was late for work and ran out of the house. It was raining. All it took was five steps. Marley was crying because her arm hurt really bad from the break. Then they checked the baby and…”