Dangerous Lies (25 page)

“Forgiveness is a tough wire to walk,” Carmina agreed. “You have to balance letting go of what doesn’t matter and holding on to what does.”

“I don’t want to forgive her!” I admitted furiously. “I don’t want to let her back in, because she’s going to hurt me again. Again and again!”

“Have you told her your fears?”

“She knows.” I threw my hands up, frustrated to be having this conversation. There was a reason I never thought about, much less talked about, my mother. She brought to the surface all these emotions I didn’t want. Being reminded I was still holding on to them only made me feel worse. Why couldn’t I move on? It was the one thing I wanted, so what was holding me back?

“Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes we have to say the words twice for them to get through. Sometimes we have to keep saying them over and over.”

“I shouldn’t have to.”

“No, I don’t suppose you should. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Now, there’s a game they ought to put in those Vegas casinos. Good people can’t ever win. House has the advantage.”

“Have you ever had to forgive someone?” I asked. “Really forgive? That’s what I want to know.”

Carmina pondered my question thoughtfully. “I’m a private person, Stella,” she began cautiously.

“Don’t give me that crap.”

Her chin tilted up, and she drew a long, measured breath. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

“How long did it take?”

“Years, I suppose. I dragged my feet. I chose to be ornery, letting my wounds fester, instead of letting go and finding peace. I thought I had a right to be angry. It occurred to me too late that I also had a right to heal. I could have fixed things,” she said, with unmistakable grief woven into her voice. “I could have, but I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. But forgiving means getting hurt. It means saying what you did to me was okay. What my mom did wasn’t okay. It was never okay!”

“No, it wasn’t. I suspect your mother knows that.”

“Did the person you forgave ever hurt you again?” I pressed, because I suspected I knew the answer.

Her hesitation was confirmation enough.

“They did,” I said. “They hurt you again. How can you stand there and tell me I should forgive my mom, knowing she’ll only cause me more pain?”

“Because holding on to that bitter anger will hurt you more than your mother’s failures.” Carmina wiped her damp eyes, which glistened with deep and painful regret. She turned away from me, too dignified to let me watch her cry.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” I said, feeling pangs of guilt. I’d overstepped. Worse, I’d made an example of her for the sole purpose of proving I was right. She believed in the power of forgiveness; I did not. But I should have disagreed with her more respectfully.

“Not upset,” Carmina said in a small, haunted voice. “We spend our whole lives running from our past, never realizing it’s hitched to us—we can’t ever outrun it.”

I shifted uncomfortably, not knowing if Carmina wanted to be left alone. Her voice had changed—it sounded far off and lonely. I wasn’t even sure she was speaking to me anymore. I said, “I should go to bed.”

“I hear you,” Carmina answered, trying to sound normal, but her voice was distant. “Go on up, I’ll follow you in a minute.”

“Do you want me to bring you a cup of tea?”

“Ah, no. Thank you, Stella. Go on, now. I’m gonna sit here a minute, listen to the radio.”

With her back still to me, she eased herself down to lie on the sofa, moving slower than usual. She reached for the radio, her fingers stopping a few inches short of the dial. Her whole body looked stiff, as if braced for an unexpected—and unwelcome—blast of cold wind.

But it was summer, heat steaming off the pavement long after sundown. There would be no relief, no chill in the air tonight.

A LOUD CRASH STARTLED ME
awake. I blinked in the darkness, disoriented. Had the sound come from downstairs? Had I imagined it? The clock showed just after two.

Danny Balando.

I clutched my sheet, paralyzed. Sweat flushed my body. His men had found me. They were in Carmina’s house, and they were going to kill me.

Frozen in fear, I tried to think. How would I escape? My mouth had gone dry. I could not think of a way out.

I waited for their feet on the stairs, but the house settled into silence.

After several minutes, the fear lost its grip and my mind cleared. Danny Balando’s men were not here. They would have found me by now.

I pushed off the sheets and padded to my bedroom door, opening it wide enough to peer down the hall. “Carmina?”

The living room light had been left on downstairs. It cast long shadows on the faded wallpaper. Had Carmina not gone to bed? It wasn’t like her to stay up late or to forget the light.

I took the first several steps down the staircase. “Carmina?” I called softly. If she had fallen asleep on the sofa, I didn’t want to wake her.

When I saw her, my mind seemed to sink into a fog, not really taking in the strange picture of her slumped forward on the coffee table.

I didn’t know if it was really her, or if the flashbacks had seized my mind again. I saw my mom drooped in a wingback chair in the library, her skin blue, her eyes pinpricks. Human tissue sprayed the wall behind her. I saw Carmina, hunched over, her white hair hanging in her face.

“Carmina!” I broke into a run. I dropped to my knees beside her. I shook her hard enough that I should have been able to rouse her. “Can you hear me?” She didn’t respond, and my heart began to hammer.

I eased her body back onto the sofa. Her eyes were shut, her face drawn tight in pain. She was breathing, her chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic spurts.

The phone. Where was the phone? I found it on the receiver in the kitchen and fumbled it; it clattered to the floor. Cursing, I tried again. With shaking fingers, I dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“I think my foster mom, Carmina Songster, had a heart attack,” I blurted. I willed myself to speak slower. I wasn’t going to help Carmina if I couldn’t keep calm long enough to give them directions to her house. I had to speak clearly. “I heard something crash, and came downstairs to find her slumped over on the coffee table. She’s very pale and not breathing normally. I tried to wake her, but it’s no use.”

“What is your address?”

“Twelve Sapphire Skies.”

“Emergency personnel will be there as soon as they can.”

“How soon?” My voice climbed higher. “I don’t know if she’s okay. Please help me—I don’t know what to do!”

“They’ll be there as fast as they can.”

I hung up and immediately broke into tears. I covered Carmina with the wool throw, tucking it gently around her body. I refused to think about death. Carmina would get better. The paramedics would come and they’d take us to the hospital, where doctors would know how to help her.

I nestled my hand in Carmina’s chilled palm. She made no effort to tighten her fingers around mine. I didn’t know if she was even aware of me.

I started crying harder. I felt sick with worry. I didn’t have anyone else. If she left me, I’d be completely alone. They’d take me away, force me to start over somewhere new. I’d have to face my problems by myself, and at that moment, the thought seemed so insurmountable, it threatened to crush me. What would I do without Carmina and Chet? Without Inny? I felt safe in Thunder Basin. I’d grown used to the faded blue sheets on my bed and Carmina’s meat-and-potato dinners. When I needed to talk, she listened without interrupting or passing judgment. She didn’t ignore me. She knew the real me, and I could be myself around her. I trusted her.

She was all I had.

Some time later, the paramedics arrived. I was in no position to judge how long it had taken them. It felt like a long, long stretch between when I called 911 and when I heard the ambulance sailing down the road. It must have only been a few minutes, because I was still crying when I ran to open the door for them.

“She’s on the sofa in the living room.” Frantically, I pointed which way they should go.

From there, the paramedics took over. With smooth efficiency, they lifted her onto a stretcher and wheeled her out to the waiting ambulance.

“Is she allergic to aspirin?” one of them asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you a family member?”

“I—yes.” My answer just shot out. But it wasn’t a lie. Carmina was the closest thing to family I had.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Minors aren’t allowed to ride in the ambulance. You’ll have to meet us at the hospital.”

“I’m not allowed? I just told you I’m her family!”

Turning the whole of his attention to Carmina, the paramedic climbed into the back of the ambulance and fit a blood pressure cuff around the soft flesh of her arm. The other paramedic closed the doors, and the ambulance raced toward town, leaving me staring at the back of it.

*  *  *

My mind was too full to think. In a haze, I tried to prepare myself for what might become of Carmina. What might become of me. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but somewhere along the way, I’d started to view Carmina as someone who belonged in my life. Someone who’d pushed through my walls when it would have been easier to give up. But Carmina didn’t give up.

I begged her not to give up this time.

I sat out in the hot night air, rocking slowly in Carmina’s porch swing. I could hear insects whining around me, but I only dimly acknowledged them. Every time I tried to go back inside, my knees shook so hard I had to sit down again. I didn’t know what time it was, but worrying about Carmina had sapped what little energy I’d started with, and now I felt not only dizzy, but exhausted. And my head throbbed a little.

I had to see her. I wasn’t ready to handle the worst, but I would never forgive myself if I let her go without saying good-bye. I’d made a lot of mistakes in Thunder Basin, but this wouldn’t be one of them.

I got up and walked inside by sheer willpower alone. My hand trembled as I picked up the phone. I didn’t know what else to do, so I called Chet. His was the only number in Thunder Basin, besides Carmina’s, that I knew from memory.

“Hello?” His sleep-roughened voice sounded deeper than usual.

“Chet.” I swallowed to take the wobble out of my voice. “Carmina’s hurt. She’s not okay. They took her away in an ambulance.”

His groggy voice came instantly alert. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, but I’m—worried about her. So worried about her.” I could hear the high, quivering sound of my voice, and it was a foreign sound. I’d never felt so small. So small or in need of help. “Can you drive me to the hospital? I need to be with her.”

“I’m on my way.”

I WAS PACING THE PORCH
when Chet angled the Scout into Carmina’s drive. He left the engine running and swung right out to meet me. His hair was mussed and his clothes rumpled, but I hardly noticed either; it was those concerned blue eyes cutting right into mine that made me forget about our fight and jog toward him. I didn’t stop a safe distance away. I threw my arms around him and buried my face in his shirt. I thought I’d cried all my tears, but a few more stung the backs of my eyes.

“Oh, Chet. I’m so worried about her!”

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmured reassuringly, wrapping his arms around me. I let myself believe him, because I had to. For Carmina’s sake, I couldn’t give up. I would be strong for her.

“She was barely breathing. I didn’t know how to help her. If she— If she—” I shut my eyes hard. I wasn’t going to think it. Not until I had to.

*  *  *

It was my second time in Thunder Basin Regional Medical Center since the start of summer. I couldn’t think of a darker place. Or one with less hope.

But hope was exactly what I clung to as Chet and I talked to the nurses at the ER desk. I wanted to be strong and take control, the way Carmina had when I’d been the one in the hospital bed. Instead, I stood there with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose while Chet peppered the nurses with inquiries.

Carmina had had a heart attack. She was breathing again, but in critical condition. Her heart muscle had been damaged, and the doctors were going to perform coronary angioplasty to reduce the damage and restore blood flow to the heart. They’d know more after the procedure.