“Sure,” Daddy answered.
“Would you like to go somewhere private?” Mira’s doctor asked.
“Mira’s asleep so we can talk here. What’s going on?”
“We can’t find anything physically wrong with Mira.” The physician crossed his arms over his chest.
“But why is she bruised?” Daddy asked.
“The bruises are small and it’s not likely they were made by an adult.”
“Mira’s friend Chelsea said that Mia was alone when this happened.” Daddy took off his baseball cap, ran a hand over his hair, and put the cap back on. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Dr. Leopold was quiet for what seemed like a long time.
“I reviewed her chart,” he finally said. “Mira was in the hospital before, the night Ms. Patterson came to your home.”
Daddy nodded.“Yes.”
“And she had the same type of bruises then as she does now. Small. Like she was hit by a child.”
“Mira wasn’t around other kids the first time she was brought in. And Mira’s friend’s mother was in the house with them when I picked Mira up.”
“Do you think it might be possible that Mira is doing this to herself?”
“What?” Daddy sounded angry. “Why would Mira hurt herself?”
“I’m not saying she did. But sometimes children act out for attention.”
“Attention?” Daddy spread his arms out to his sides. “But why would she do that? Mira gets all the attention she needs.”
Dr. Leopold turned and moved to the door. “Maybe you’d like to consult with a psychiatrist.”
Daddy let out a huff and glanced at Faith, and she quickly shut her eye. “I don’t know what to do. I miss my wife. I miss the way Mira used to be,” his voice broke. “I miss my family.”
“I wish I had answers.” Leopold scratched his temple. “Something is going on. I’ve heard children do strange things when something isn’t right at home or if—”
“I know you’ve heard the gossip. Everything was fine up until the last few months.”
“I’m just giving you a suggestion. If Mira were my daughter, I’d want to get to the bottom of whatever is happening.”
“Charlie took Mira to a psychologist.”
“And?”
“He said something about multiple personalities.”
“I wouldn’t be too quick to rule that out,” Leopold answered. “Something, or someone, is hurting her. I don’t have any expertise in the psychiatric field, Mr. Abbott. All I know is that the bruises do not appear like they’re from an adult.”
“But she passed out. Could she do that to herself too?”
“The brain can do strange things. I’ve seen patients who will themselves to be sick.”
Daddy was quiet for a few seconds. “I need to think about this.”
“I know a couple of good child psychiatrists I could refer you to.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
After the door closed, her Daddy went to the window. And then she heard something she’d never heard before.
Her daddy started to cry.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WINSTON SAT AT THE ABBOTTS’kitchen table with Clint. “I’m sorry Mira is having some issues,” he began. “Did they find out what the problem is?”
“No,” Clint said matter-of-factly.
Clint Abbott was as handsome as Charlie was pretty. He was a good six-foot tall with a full head of dark hair that fell over his forehead, meeting the eyebrows above his pensive blue eyes. The gray sweatshirt with a Hawkeye emblem on the chest hugged his muscular chest and upper arms.
“I’m sorry you and Charlie are going through this.” Winston cleared his throat. “It’s good Charlie didn’t have to go to jail.”
“Charlie didn’t touch that woman.” Clint took a sip of his Bud Light and then looked to Winston. “Sure you don’t wanna beer?” he asked, cutting off any further conversation about Charlie and Shannon Patterson. “I might have some whiskey stashed in the pantry.”
“I’m good,” Winston answered. “Maybe later.” Winston glanced around the kitchen. “Charlie said you grew up here.”
“Only house I’ve ever lived in.” Clint leaned back. “Nothing’s changed since my dad died, except Mira’s room used to be Dad’s office.” Clint brought the can of beer to his mouth. “Charlie isn’t much for change.”
“How long you been married?”
Clint looked up. “Nine… no… ten years. Charlie gets upset when I can’t remember our anniversary date or year. I married her the day after high school graduation.”
“Must be difficult to be separated,” Winston said.
Clint was quiet for a few seconds as if trying to keep his emotions in check. “How do you think she’s doin’?”
“Not very well.”
Clint was quiet.
“Did anyone venture a guess on how Mira got the bruises?” Winston asked.
Clint smirked. “Doc says he thinks she might have done it to herself.”
“Interesting,” Winston said.
“How come I’ve never heard of you before?” Clint asked out of nowhere.
“I lost touch with Charlie’s parents when she was young.” Winston hated lying as one lie always led to another.
“Happens to all of us,” Clint responded. “I’ve got cousins out there I haven’t seen since we were kids.”
“I’m not getting any younger,” Winston added. “So decided it was time to try and find everyone I could.” He clasped his hands together and put them on the table. “Where’s that little girl of yours? I’m anxious to meet her.”
“She’s upstairs in her room if you’d like to go up. I told her you were coming.”
Winston pushed his chair back and stood. “I’d like that.”
“Stairway is just through there. I need to check the news.” Clint nodded toward the archway, not knowing Winston had already been in the house. “Heard a storm is comin’ our way.”
“Thanks.” Winston walked under the arched entrance and into the living room. He knew a storm was coming because his arthritic joints could feel a weather change long before a weatherman gave the forecast.
“How long you gonna be in town?” Clint asked before Winston was out of earshot.
He stopped and turned back around. “Don’t know for sure. One thing about being retired is you don’t have a schedule.”
The house had good vibes, Winston thought as he stood in the homey living room. And like Charlie, Clint was easy to get to know.
His eyes went to the mantel on the brick fireplace that displayed family photos. On one side of the worn brown upholstered couch was a basket with a couple of garments and thread inside that were probably waiting for Charlie to replace a missing button or mend a tear. The Abbotts were good people who led a simple private life. That is, until now.
He wrapped a hand around the banister and slowly made his way up the stairs. He had to be careful how he approached the little girl. Children and animals had a sixth sense about people.
When he reached Mira’s room, he stood in the doorway watching her play with one of her many dolls.
“Oh, would you like some tea, Audrey?” she asked in a small voice and picked up a minuscule teapot off the round braided rug. She turned to another doll and wagged an index finger at her. “You need to take a nap today, or there’s going to be a time-out for you, young lady.”
“I take it you don’t like time-outs,” Winston asked.
Mira turned around, her round blue eyes were a clone of her father’s. She stared at Winston blankly for a few seconds. “Who are you?”
“I’m Winston,” he said walking to her. She was a pretty little girl, with delicate features like Charlie.
“Are you Daddy’s friend?” she asked.
“I’m your mommy’s cousin.”
“You mean Charlie’s cousin.” Her tone turned to contempt. She turned back around and went back to what she was doing.
&nb
sp; Winston settled in the rocking chair and, like most the chairs he sat in, he had to lean forward for his feet to touch the floor. “You like playing with dolls?”
She batted her eyes. “You mean my girls.” She picked up one of dolls with an angelic face and her eyes closed when Faith laid her back in her arms.
“I had a doll when I was about your age.”
She giggled. “Boys don’t have dolls, silly.”
“Well, I did. My dad didn’t like it much, but my mom said it was good for a boy to get in touch with their sensitive side.”
The little girl pulled her legs up underneath her. “What’s sen...” She crinkled up her nose.
“Sensitive?” Winston asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, as we grow up, we learn how to have feeling for others. When we’re born it’s like it’s all about us. We cry when we’re hungry, or tired, or just cranky. A doll, my mother told me, teaches us how to care about others, even though they’re not human.”
“Like what do they teach us?” she asked.
“Oh, things like feeling happy or sad for those we love. Or like if your mommy cries”—he placed a hand over his heart—“we feel like crying, too. Our dolls need us, just like our families.”
“Like when I was in the hospital, my daddy got real sad.”
No mention of Charlie. “And you probably felt sad too, right?”
“Uh-huh.” She picked up another doll and fidgeted with her clothes.
“And we are happy when our mommies are happy or, if we have a brother or sister, when they feel hurt, we do too. That’s called being sensitive to what other people feel.”
She picked up a tiny brush. “I don’t have a brother or sister.”
“Would you like a brother or sister some day?”
“I don’t know.” She casually brushed through her doll’s hair. “Maybe if Daddy gets married again.”
Why was she pushing Charlie away? “Can you tell me the names of all your dolls?” The topic was getting too heavy and Winston could tell she was shutting down.
“Sure.” She picked up each doll, telling Winston not only their names, but what they liked to eat or their favorite bedtime story.
“How come you wear your hair like a lady?” she asked, pointing at Winston’s ponytail.
Winston smiled. “I guess it’s because I like it that way. Everyone should be who they are.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Who else could we be?”
He chuckled. “I guess we can only be ourselves.”
“Are you two getting to know each other?”
Winston looked up and saw Clint in the doorway.
“Daddy.” Faith pointed at Winston. “He played with dolls, too.”
“Storm just started.” Clint nodded out the window, ignoring the comment. “Gonna be a big one. Forecast predicted ten to twelve inches by morning.”
“Oh gosh.” Winston pushed up off the rocker. “I better be heading back to the motel.”
“I’ve got some stew warmin’ up that Charlie’s mother brought out. You’re welcome to spend the night. That is, if you don’t mind the couch.”
“You sure?” He was hoping Clint would ask him to stay.
“Might as well be here instead of in a hotel room.” Clint started down the hallway. “Whole town will be shut down within an hour.”
“I’ll see you downstairs, okay?” Winston briefly touched the top of her head as he walked by.
She smiled. “Deal.”
“Haven’t been held hostage by a snow storm since I moved south,” Winston said joining Clint in the kitchen. “New York did me in.”
“You’re from New York City?” Clint asked.
“Born and raised there.”
“Never been.”
“Ever had a desire to go? Take Charlie and Mira?”
“Nope,” Clint answered without hesitation. “I’m a country bumpkin and satisfied to stay where I belong.”
“Almost forgot what snow looks like,” Winston said, looking out the window of the back door.
“It’s pretty when you’re on the inside looking out.” Clint put a hot pad on his hand and took the lid off the pot on the stove. “But they’ll be half a dozen cars stuck in the ditch from here to Sheffield by morning.”
“Want me to help, Daddy?” Faith asked scrambling past Winston.
“That’d be great, Punkin’.” Clint covered the stew. “How ‘bout you set the table?” Clint glanced at Winston. “Grab a beer if you want.”
“Believe I will.” Winston hadn’t had a beer in years, but it sounded good right now. He’d been anxious about meeting Clint. But it only took a few minutes for him to feel comfortable. It felt as if he’d known the Abbotts for years.
Over dinner, Clint and Winston talked about the weather and the process of planting corn. Winston chatted about his career as a professor and mentioned his friend Saul briefly. Winston noted Clint’s raised eyebrow when Faith mentioned Winston had a doll when he was her age, silently saying he really didn’t need to know his sexual preference.
After the dishes were put away, Clint told her to get ready for bed.
“Can Mister read me a book tonight?” she asked.
Clint stopped what he was doing. “Mister?”
“That’s what I call him,” Faith said.
“But his name is Winston,” Clint told her.
“I know, but I like Mister better.”
“I kind of like it.” Winston smiled. “And I’d be honored to read you a book.”
When she called out to Winston from upstairs, telling him she was ready for her book Winston went into the living room and noticed that the couch was already made up with a blanket and pillow.
When he reached Mira’s bedroom, he found Faith in her pajamas and in bed holding a book. Her face and hands had been scrubbed clean. He glanced at the cover on the book. “Ahh, Goodnight Moon. I like that book.”
Mira giggled. “You like the same things as I do.”
“It appears so.” He pulled the rocker to the side of the bed.
“I even have a ponytail like you do.”
“We do like the same things.” She was so innocent, with an upturned nose and infectious smile.
As he read the story, the little girl scooted under the covers, her eyes growing heavy. She was almost asleep when Clint came in to say prayers.
She finished her prayer with, “God bless Daddy and my new friend Mister, and Hank. Amen.”
“Why doesn’t Hank sleep with you anymore?” Clint asked when he tucked Mira in.
She yawned. “I dunno.”
Clint bent over, pulled the funny looking little dog out from under the bed, and placed it beside Faith. Immediately, Hank jumped down and scooted back underneath the bed.
“Maybe you rolled over on him,” Clint said. “And scared him.”
But Winston knew that wasn’t the reason that Hank was hiding.
It was almost two in the morning when Winston snuck up the stairwell, stopping with every creak of the stairs. He held his breath hoping Clint wouldn’t wake. Finding Winston in his daughter’s room in the middle of the night would be difficult to explain.
The glow of Mira’s nightlight gave off enough light for him to inch his way into the room without tripping. When Hank let out a low growl, Winston quietly shushed him, sending Hank back into hibernation.
He tiptoed around to the other side of her bed and went down to his knees. After he listened to her rhythmic breathing to make sure she was asleep Winston gently placed his hand over hers. Clearing his mind of all thoughts, he drew in a deep, cleansing breath and slowly let it out. Take me to Mira, he said silently over and over. Take me to your sister.
It wasn’t long before he found himself inside a tunnel clouded by a thick haze.
“Hurry up,” Faith said.
Squinting through the fog, he made out the back of her head.
Where were they? He looked back over his shoulder and saw the opening of the l
arge cylinder slowly closing.
A bout of anxiety hit him. He’d spent his life reuniting loved ones, but had never ventured to the other side.
She waved him forward. “Come on, Mister, Mira’s waiting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SHANNON WAS MADDER THAN HELL. Clint didn’t even have the balls to tell her what he was doing tonight. All he said was that he was busy. “Busy with what, Bonehead?”
Leaning back against her kitchen counter, she downed more wine. “You don’t tell someone you’re in love with that you’re busy.” She stomped out of the kitchen and into the living room,
She’d called Clint and told him she’d pick up some nice T-bone steaks; Iowa grass fed like the ones he liked cook dinner for him and Mira. And what did he say? “Thanks, but I have plans. Maybe some other time.”
“Some other time?” How could the man she loved be so cruel? So insensitive to Shannon’s feelings?
She put the bottle down on the coffee table, grabbed her coat she’d dropped on the couch and threw it across the room. Shannon plopped down on the sofa, put her stocking feet up on the coffee table and crossed one foot over the other. “Phooey on you, Mr. Magoo!”
Looking around this shit hole of a house made her sick. The place was disgusting. This whole damn town sucked. She should have left a long time ago. She leaned over and clutched the throat of the wine bottle. As she guzzled the booze, random thoughts raced through her head like a movie in fast forward motion.
She’d better not find out that he was with Charlie, or he’d pay big time. Her mood changed from revenge to sorrowful when Shannon envisioned Clint’s face, the puppy-dog blue eyes, the warm smile, and the passionate way he looked at her.
“You love me, I know you do,” Shannon blubbered, tears welling in her eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?” She placed a hand over her throat. “I'm your biggest fan.”
“I have plans,” she spouted, mimicking Clint in a low voice. “Well, so do I, dumbass.” She wiped tears off her face. “This ain't no puppy love. What we have here, Mr. Abbott is”—she grinned —“verdaderonegocio.”
She laughed out loud. How the hell could she remember how to say “real deal” from the two years she’d taken Spanish in high school?
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