At the Corner of King Street (4 page)

Barely a year old, Alexandria is a collection of half-built wooden structures, muddy streets etched with deep ruts, and none of the culture we enjoyed in Scotland. The doctor enjoys his clay pipe, puffing tendrils of tobacco smoke that permeate the hot, humid air of our one-room cabin. My new home is a single room with a dirt floor and a large stone hearth. One roughly hewn table and four chairs dominate the space and serve as a place to prepare meals, mend clothes, and on very rare occasions transcribe my thoughts. The doctor tells me he was lucky to acquire a lot of land this close to the thriving port. Of the sixty-plus surveyed plots last July, all sold within days during the land sale. He tells me Virginian and British gentry desiring a home closer to the bustling warehouse purchased the lots, so we will be in good company. Mr. Carlyle, a second son of a Scottish lord, is building what promises to be the largest home in the city for his new bride, Sarah Fairfax of Belvoir. Made of limestone, it sits on two lots on the newly named
Fairfax Street. The doctor assures me our wooden house is temporary. He has vowed we will live in a brick home by next summer.

He presented me with a serving girl to assist me in my daily chores. She is not more than sixteen. Plump and strong-boned with skin the color of mahogany, she promises to be a good worker. Her name is Penny.

“W
hat do you mean you're leaving?” Scott looked up from his wine journal, his eyes wide with a touch of panic, and his mouth slack. I couldn't have surprised him more if I told him dinosaurs roamed the vineyards.

“I wouldn't go if I absolutely didn't have to.”

He drummed his pencil on the journal. “What could be more important than the launch of this wine? I can't think of what matters more than this.”

Guilt chewed. “I agree. But I have to go back to Alexandria and take care of some family business.”

“Family business. You never talk about family.”

“We're not close.” The door to my past creaked open wide enough for me to hear the whispers of self-doubt and fear. “But I'm the only one that can help.”

He rose, and I wanted him to wrap his arms around me and tell me it would all be fine. The secrets and decisions I made long before
loomed between us, silent and threatening. I didn't want my life—our life—to shatter, and I feared it would collapse under the weight of too much truth. “I'll drive into the city in the next hour, and then I'll be home by tomorrow afternoon. I'm ahead of schedule, and there really isn't much I can do until Friday.”

Scott shook his head. “I don't like this, Addie.”

“Neither do I, Scott. But it can't be helped.”

“What's so dire that you have to take care of it?”

Telling one bit of the truth was akin to tugging on one loose thread. How much would make it all unravel? “The details don't matter.”

He sighed out what sounded like the weight of a great sacrifice. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow.” He wasn't pressing for details and that eased some of the worry. But then Scott never really pressed for details. He always assumed I'd handle it.

“Okay.” He leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Be safe.”

“I will. I love you.”

A smile tweaked his lips. “I love you, too.”

He sat and turned his attention back to his notes.

There was no reason to linger, but I wished like hell I could stay as I packed a clean shirt and a second pair of jeans along with a toothbrush in a duffel bag. I walked to my car, a dusty white CRV. I tossed my purse and bag on the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. Gripping my keys in my hand, an odd energy surged, and when I opened my palm, my gaze was drawn to the old key I'd found in the box at the warehouse so many years ago. After surviving the accident, I thought of it as a lucky charm and kept it on my key ring.

For a moment, my grip tightened around the old key. “Damn you, Janet. Damn you.”

I jammed the car key in the ignition. A turn of the key and the
engine roared to life, and I drove the narrow dirt driveway toward the main road. Dust and rocks kicked up under the tires. At the end of the drive, I glanced at the Willow Hills sign, the dangling Welcome sign, and the bright yellow marigolds planted days ago.

My life. My home. I didn't want to leave.

Shoving out a breath, I turned right and headed northeast toward Alexandria.

Country roads that rolled past barns, green fields, and split-rail fences gave way to bigger routes, which quickly fed into I-66, the main artery between the west and east in Northern Virginia. By the time I reached the Washington, D.C., Beltway, traffic was heavy, nearly bumper to bumper, and the sixty-plus-mile-an-hour pace I enjoyed outside the city slowed to a crawl.

Traffic moved along the hot paved roads bracketed by tall concrete sound barriers. The only hints of green now were clumps of weeds that grew at the base of the barriers or around a few guardrails. My chest tightening, I opened the window, expecting fresh air. The hot breeze carried with it the heavy scents of gasoline and oil. Damn. Welcome back, Addie.

I slunk around the Beltway until I spotted the Telegraph Road exit. More inching and moving forward at a snail's pace away from my life, toward insanity, followed.

“Leave it to you, Janet.”

By the time I parked in the Alexandria Hospital parking lot, the traffic and fatigue had wrung out some of the anger. Resolved, I made my way to the nurse's station, where a tall, lean woman dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt, and a pink smock stood. Her nametag read Molly Burns, Volunteer, and she wore her long brown hair swept into a thick ponytail. A ready smile reached her green eyes.

“I'm looking for the maternity ward. I'm here to see my sister.”

She grinned. “Maternity is on the sixth floor. There's a nurses' station to your left when you get off the elevators. And congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

I'd not been in a hospital since my car accident, but I could see little had changed. The air still held that stale antiseptic smell and the glow of the fluorescent lights made everyone look sallow. I punched the Up button and when the doors opened I stepped inside. The elevator stopped at the third floor and a young Indian couple stepped inside. They spoke in whispered tones, but when they saw me they grew quiet. We all rode the remaining floors in stiff silence.

When the doors dinged open, I flinched. The couple exited and turned toward the nursery. I didn't want to see the baby. Janet was the real issue now. Getting her fit and healthy was the priority.

I found the nurses' station easily and waited while a short, round woman in her mid-fifties and dressed in scrubs finished a phone conversation. When she glanced up, I shifted, nervous and edgy. “I'm here for Janet Morgan Talbot.” I didn't know if she still used her married name.

The nurse glanced at her patient list and then back up at me. “You're her sister?”

“That's right. I'm Addie Morgan.”

Concern deepened her frown. “You're on the list of approved visitors.”

“Do all the patients have lists?”

“No. But she's different.”

Different. “How did the delivery go?”

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. “C-section, but it went textbook.”

“What about the baby?”

“The baby is doing well. She's small. But that's not a surprise. I don't think your sister was eating regularly, based on her weight.”

Janet didn't eat much when she was manic or depressed. “Has a psychiatrist been in to see her?”

The nurse set aside her papers. “Yes. He wants to talk to your aunt, but she left this morning and hasn't returned.”

Because she was busy dragging me back into this mess. “Can you page the doctor and tell him I'm here? If we can't meet today, maybe tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Where is my sister?”

“Ms. Morgan is in room 606.”

Along this long hallway, a new mother was gingerly walking the halls with her attentive husband. Two grandparents admired a picture on their phone. A care partner carried a stack of blankets. Normal life continued.

I paused before I reached Janet's open door. I moved into the room and carefully pulled back the curtains encircling her bed. Janet lay still, her eyes closed, her pale blond hair hanging around her slender shoulders. She wasn't wearing makeup but her cheekbones cut high, thick eyebrows arched smoothly, and skin remained as porcelain as ever.

Janet possessed a vulnerability that made people want to help her. Her whimsical regard for responsibility branded her fun-loving and carefree. Anyone having a party in high school wanted Janet to attend. She was quick to laugh and never refused a dare. When she was fifteen, a couple of boys at a party dared her to run naked along King Street. She took the dare and with a crowd of twenty high school kids watching, dashed down the busy street without a stitch. She was arrested, of course, but laughing when the cops put handcuffs and a blanket on her. Even the cops were amused.

As I moved closer to the bed, I saw the wrist restraints binding her arms at her sides. Thin white scars marred her arms. She was cutting herself again. An IV ran from her arm to a bag hanging by the bed.

There was a knock on the door and I turned to see a tall, young man dressed in a white coat. Thick dark hair swept over his wide forehead. Dark circles hung under his eyes. His name tag read Dr. Mike Reed.

“Ms. Morgan?”

“Yes.”

His gaze, which swept over me quickly, reflected surprise. I was short, with dark hair that skimmed my shoulders. There was nothing about my round face or pug nose that would link me genetically to Janet.

“I'm Dr. Reed,” he said. “I'm the psychiatrist who evaluated your sister.”

“That was fast.”

“I happened to be on the floor.”

“Good timing.”

He cleared his throat. “Have you heard what happened?”

“Not the specific details but I can easily imagine.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Has your sister ever been diagnosed with a mental condition?”

“When she was twenty, she was diagnosed as bipolar with psychosis.”

“Was she under a doctor's care?”

“For a while. I haven't seen her in seven years. I don't know what kind of treatment she's undergone in the interim.”

“Okay.” He opened the chart at the foot of her bed and made notes.

“Is she going to be hospitalized?”

“Yes. She was in active labor when she was brought in by police.”

“She called me several times this morning. I missed the calls. I hear her C-section was textbook.”

“It was. If you go to the nursery, they can update you on her status.”

I didn't want an update or status. I didn't want to get pulled back
into this cursed world that had plagued my family for as long as I could remember. “How long will she be in the hospital?”

“Three days minimum, but I'm going to encourage her to stay for thirty. She'll need to be really stable before she can think about caring for the baby.”

The nerves in my back fisted. “Is there any record of the baby's father?”

“He's listed as unknown.”

“How long will my sister be unconscious?”

“Until morning. She's heavily sedated.”

At least one of us would get a good night's sleep. “Okay.”

“Do you know if she has any drug allergies?”

“She doesn't have any that I know of. As I remember, she responded well to her meds before. The trick will be to keep her on them.”

“Right.” He clicked his pen closed and popped it in his front pocket. “When she wakes, we can figure out what's next.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to see your niece?”

A sigh shuddered through me. I didn't want to see her. I didn't want this nightmare to be real. “Yes.”

I thanked the doctor again and then headed into the hallway. The buzz of machines, the hum of the overhead lights, and the rattle of a gurney swirled around me as I stood frozen. What the hell was I going to do?

The friendly nurse from the nurses' station approached me carefully. “You've seen your sister?”

With effort, I shifted my attention to her and tried to smile. “Yes. She's sleeping.”

“That's for the best. Dr. Reed is very good. All the nurses think a lot of him.”

“Good. My sister is going to need the A-Team and then some. Where's the nursery?”

“Let me show you the way.”

As tempting as it was to run screaming from the building, I followed. When we arrived at the large glass window, I scanned the couple of dozen bassinets. Immediately, I shifted focus from blue blankets to pink, but I couldn't pick my own flesh and blood out of a crowd.

“She's on the end,” the nurse said.

I moved along the glass wall until I stood in front of the last bassinet on the end. The baby was pink, round-faced, and crying. Judging by her balled fists and the extra red in her cheeks, she was furious. “What's wrong with her?”

“She's hungry. And from what the nurse told me she likes to be held.”

High maintenance. Figures. “Is anyone going to feed her?”

“Would you like to?”

That was her mother's job, not mine. My grip tightened on my leather purse strap. “I've never fed a baby before. What if I make a mistake?”

“It's not hard. I can get a nurse to show you.”

I scrambled for a decent excuse to get out of this. I wanted to run back to the country and worry about place settings, caterers, and polished wineglasses.

“You should learn.” She dropped her voice a notch. “I've treated patients like your sister before. They don't just pop back after a few pills. It's going to take her some time and this baby is going to need someone who is stable to take care of her.”

That startled a laugh. “And who says I'm all that stable? I feel like I'm going a little insane right now.”

A sad smile curled the edges of her lips. “That sounds pretty normal to me. Only a crazy person wouldn't be worried right now.”

Standing here with this stranger, it was easy to open up and be honest about what I'd denied for years. “The women in my family have a history of mental illness. My mother was ill most of my life and Janet's been ill since she was a teenager.”