Barefoot Summer (30 page)

Starting to, Madison?

She closed her eyes, caught her breath. Okay. So she’d fallen. She was stumbling-downhill, head-over-heels in love with him. A hapless casualty of gravity. But none of that mattered anymore.

“Jo,” her dad said, “we have to tell her.” Her parents looked at each other, held eye contact for a long moment.

A thread of dread wiggled down Madison’s spine. “Dad? Tell me what?”

Dad squeezed Mom’s hand. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Mom?” What could they possibly need to say? She could only imagine, and the dread of it stilled everything inside her.

The swing came to a halt. Mom leaned forward, set her hand on Madison’s arm. “Honey, there’s something you need to know. Something we didn’t tell you.”

Mom looked at Dad. He pressed his lips together.

“What? You’re scaring me.”

Mom’s hand tightened on her arm. “Honey, Michael didn’t die from diving off that cliff.”

Madison frowned, her mind trying to make sense of it. “He had a concussion. From hitting the water. He passed out and drowned. That’s what the autopsy said. That’s what you told me.”

Something flickered in her mom’s eyes.

Her dad planted his elbows on his knees. “He did have a concussion. Sometimes that does happen from hitting the water wrong. But that’s not what happened to Michael.”

“I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“Honey, he had a condition.”

“We didn’t know about it,” Dad said. “He’d never had any symptoms up till that day, but the autopsy found it. They said he died suddenly and hit his head on a rock when he fell.”

“He didn’t drown? What condition? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It’s a metabolic disorder, but they said they’d never seen this particular kind before,” Dad said.

“They identify new types regularly. But it was some type of what they call inborn errors of metabolism. And we didn’t tell you because—” Mom looked at Dad.

“It’s genetic. And since they couldn’t identify the type, there was no way of testing for it.”

“Honey, we didn’t want you kids living in fear that you might just . . . drop dead one day.”

“I could have it, you mean? And Ryan and PJ and Jade too? You should’ve told us.” How could her parents have kept something so important from them?

“It’s not likely that any of you have it, but there’s a higher likelihood among siblings. Yes, I think now we should’ve told you, but at the time . . .”

“Everyone was already reeling,” Dad said. “We were a mess ourselves, and it was just easier not to talk about it.”

“You were having trouble expressing your emotions,” Mom said. “And Ryan lost all that weight. PJ couldn’t stop crying, and Jade wouldn’t talk to anyone. We didn’t want to add to your burden. It was all we could do to keep breathing.”

Madison remembered well. It amazed her sometimes that people got through that kind of pain and went on to lead normal lives. Still, she wished she’d known. Maybe it would’ve helped her settle Michael’s death, and maybe it wouldn’t have. Maybe it would’ve only made her worry about her own mortality.

“And we can’t be tested for it?”

Dad shook his head. “The pathologist hadn’t seen anything quite like it.”

“I’m sorry, honey, if we made the wrong decision.”

“We never even discussed it, really,” Dad said. “Just fell into the pattern of not saying anything. And by the time the grief had eased up, the
why
of his death didn’t seem to matter.”

“Except poor Beckett,” Mom said. “He must’ve been carrying a world of guilt.”

Beckett. Her conversation with him replayed in her head.

Madison groaned, resting her forehead on her fingertips. “I was so hard on him. No, I was awful, I told him—” That Michael’s death was all his fault. That she wanted him to go away. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it.

“We’ll tell him the truth,” Mom said. “It’s our fault you didn’t know, that no one knew.”

Still, she could’ve given the guy a little grace. It’s not like he intentionally harmed Michael. In fact, he’d done nothing wrong at all. Madison should’ve taken a few deep breaths instead of reacting.

But she hadn’t, she’d lashed out. She, who knew what it was to bear a load of guilt. Who knew the kind of havoc it could wreak in your life, the way it could mess with your mind, with your focus, with your ability to make sound decisions.

Who was she to throw stones? She’d been so mean and unforgiving. Cruel.

“Thanks, Mom, but I think I’d better tell him.”

“Of course, whatever you want. Let us know if we can do anything.”

She had so much to digest, but she had to get this straightened out right away for her own peace of mind. Was Beckett still at Bible study? She checked her watch, but wasn’t sure what time it ended. It didn’t matter anyway, because she had final dress rehearsal in fifteen minutes and she couldn’t miss that.

She’d stop by his house afterward, no matter how late it was. The hours between now and then stretched out like a long, deserted highway even as a question frayed the dark corners of her mind: would Beckett even want her back?

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

M
ADISON
’
S MIND SPUN ALL THE WAY TO THE THEATER
. Michael didn’t drown. He died of a disease—what had her parents called it? Some kind of metabolic disorder? And she and her siblings could have it too.

What were the symptoms? Were there any changes she needed to make? And then it occurred to her. It had been ten years since his death. Ten years was a long time in medicine.

When she arrived at the theater, she tracked down Drew backstage and pulled him aside.

“I have a favor to ask.”

He finished buttoning his costume. “Sure, what is it?”

“If someone had an autopsy ten years ago, would those lab reports still be available?”

His fingers stopped at the odd question. “Sure. Slides and tissues are usually kept for years. Why?”

“How can I get them looked at again? The cause of death was narrowed down to a metabolic disease, but they couldn’t identify the type at that time.”

“Your brother?”

Madison nodded.

Drew rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure how that works.”

“Can you find out?”

“I worked with a pathologist in Chicago. Tell you what. I’ll give him a call and see what I can do.”

She squeezed Drew’s arm. “Thanks, Drew. I owe you one.” She hurried into her costume. She had to put this aside for the next couple hours and focus on the play.

They were rehearsing act 1, scene 3 when the alarm sounded. The intermittent signal blared through the theater.

Madison covered her ears. “Is that the fire alarm?”

“I think so,” Drew said.

“Probably nothing,” someone added. “It’s an old building.”

More of the cast filtered onstage in various stages of dress.

“Should we leave?”

“Should we call the fire department?”

Madison pulled her costume, a bathrobe, tighter, sniffing the air. “Hey, guys, I smell smoke.”

Everyone seemed to notice at the same time. They scrambled backstage, gathering their belongings and the rest of the cast on their way.

Drew pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling 911.”

The smoke grew worse as they hurried through the backstage clutter. Ahead of them, Madison saw fire. An old mannequin went up in flames. She pulled her shirt over her nose. Despite that, the smoke burned her lungs. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades as they skirted a burning stack of rugs.

“Did we get everyone?” Madison asked Drew after he hung up. “Where’s Layla?”

“I saw her up ahead.”

Madison coughed. “What about Elliot?”

“I don’t know.”

“We have to go back!”

“He probably went out the front.”

They couldn’t take that chance. She thought back. “I saw him on a ladder before the alarm went off, adjusting the overhead rig.”

She spun back the way they came.

“Madison, no!”

She ran down the hall. The heat got more intense with each turn. She heard Drew’s footsteps on her heels.

“We have to hurry!” he said.

They skirted burning props and a falling curtain before reaching the stage. Madison spotted the ladder and saw a form huddled at the base.

“There he is!”

Elliot’s knees were pulled to his chest, his face buried in his arms.

“Come on, Elliot, we have to go!” Madison tugged his arm. He resisted, burying his face further into his arms.

“There’s no time!” Drew scooped Elliot into his arms. “Hurry up!”

A wall of fire blocked the front of the theater. They’d have to go back the way they came. Madison coughed into her shirt as she scurried past the burning debris, checking behind her as she went. Elliot’s slight body bounced with each step.

The air was filled with smoke now. Her lungs were on fire, and her eyes burned so much she could hardly keep them open. She could barely see a few feet ahead.

She didn’t know how Drew was managing. She rounded the last corner and knew the exit had to be close.

Finally she saw light, and the smoke cleared as she stepped out the door.

“Oh, thank God!” Dottie said. “That’s everyone.”

Madison dragged in a lungful of oxygen and gave another long hack. She staggered to where the others had gathered in the potholed parking lot behind the theater. She sank to her knees, heedless of the pebbles digging into her flesh.

“Deep breaths . . . clear your lungs,” Drew said. “Ambulance on the way.”

“I’m fine. Check Elliot.”

The young man was hunched over and coughing hard.

Some were making phone calls to loved ones. A few moments later the squeal of a siren split the night.

“There’s the fire truck,” someone said. It pulled to the curb in front of the building. Smoke rose from the back, but no flames were visible. The group caught their breath, watching as the volunteer firefighters entered the building. Madison watched Ryan go in and breathed a prayer for his safety even as she coughed. Dottie had gone out front to assure them everyone was out.

“What could’ve started it?” someone nearby asked.

“I saw Wayne O’Reilly backstage about an hour ago. He was smoking.”

Madison turned to see who’d spoken. Gary.

“I was working on the curtain mechanism, and I smelled smoke. Turned around, and there he was. Drunker’n a skunk too. I told him to put the thing out.”

“I’ll bet that’s how it started.”

Behind Gary, Layla was taking it all in. Madison was sorry she’d heard the speculations about her dad. Layla said something to one of the costume designers and slipped away from the group, hurrying toward the front of the building.

“Why would O’Reilly come around here anyway?”

Gary shrugged. “Who knows.”

“Probably didn’t know what he was doing.”

“He almost sideswiped my dad a few years ago, driving drunk. Oughta put that man in jail and keep him there before he kills somebody.”

“I’ll bet he dropped the cigarette.”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

“Lucky no one was hurt.”

“Did anyone see him leave?”

Heads shook.

Madison pulled her robe against the slight chill in the air, hacking until it felt like her lungs would explode. It was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.

Beckett scooped the burger from the skillet and set it on a bun. The smell of cooking beef usually perked him up, but tonight it only made him queasy.

He put the pan in the sink and squirted a generous dollop of mustard on the burger. He needed to eat, hungry or not. And he needed to sleep, badly.

The past twenty-four hours had been rough, Madison’s face lingering in his mind like a sweet perfume. He’d dreamed of her the night before. She’d been in a sinking boat. He’d dived in from the shore and swum toward her. But the farther he swam, the farther away the boat drifted, and it had been sinking quickly. Just as she’d disappeared under the surface, he’d awakened.

He’d thrown off the covers, his heart beating wildly, and lain there afraid to go back to sleep, afraid the dream would continue, that he’d be unable to find her. That he’d lose her. He’d suddenly
understood why Madison’s nightmares had disrupted her life so severely.

Compliments of you, O’Reilly.

He’d half expected to hear from other McKinleys today, maybe her dad or Ryan. He owed them a debt he could never repay.

He took his plate into the living room and sat in his favorite chair.

Someone burst through the front door.

“Where is he?” Layla slammed the door behind her, not stopping for an answer.

Beckett jumped up and followed her.

She pushed open Dad’s door. He was facedown on the bed in the dim room.

“What did you do, Dad?” She shook him. “Wake up and answer me!”

Beckett grabbed her arm. “He’s out cold, Layla. What’s going on?”

Even in the darkness, he saw something black on her face. Her eyes were shooting darts.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on. Our dad set the theater on fire!”

He stiffened. “What? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Wait . . . tonight, during rehearsals?” Madison . . .