From Cradle to Grave (26 page)

‘My car’s just outside. We’ll go. Where’s your coat?’

Morgan pointed to the coat rack by the front door, and Astrid went over and fetched it for her. Morgan slid her phone across the counter and into the pocket of her shirt. ‘Need my bag,’ said Morgan as Astrid returned.

‘No, you don’t. They’ll just take it from you at the hospital,’ said Astrid.

‘My insurance . . .’ Morgan protested.

‘I’ll take care of all that,’ she said. ‘Now, don’t worry. Just let’s go.’

Morgan leaned on Astrid, and her limbs felt like she was slogging through jello. Her mouth was dry and the stabbing pains in her stomach were growing more frequent, and more severe. Astrid opened the front door, and the blast of chilly air made Morgan shake all over. Slowly, Astrid guided her down the steps and into her car which was parked at the curb. Morgan collapsed into the passenger seat, and rested her head against the cold windowpane.

‘Put on your seat belt,’ said Astrid.

It took all of Morgan’s strength to pull the belt over her and fasten it at the waist. She could feel drool coming out of her mouth, but she was powerless to stop it.

‘All right,’ said Astrid. ‘You just take it easy. We’ll be at the hospital in no time.’

‘Astrid,’ Morgan muttered, her tongue thick. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Astrid. ‘I’m afraid that if it weren’t for my chowder, you wouldn’t be in this condition.’

Morgan closed her eyes and rested her head against the cold glass. The car began to move, and they were on the road. Morgan felt the torpor enveloping her, while her stomach was being assaulted by pains. She wanted to sleep. Sleep seemed like the only answer. From far away, she heard a familiar song.

‘What’s that?’ Astrid asked, frowning.

Morgan realized that it was her cellphone ringing in her shirt pocket. ‘My phone,’ she said. She fumbled for it, and pulled it out, opening the phone with wooden fingers and holding it to her ear.

‘Hello . . .’ she mumbled.

‘Is this Morgan Adair?’

‘Yes . . .’tis.’

‘Did I wake you up?’ asked a velvety voice, sounding puzzled.

‘NO. I’m . . . sick,’ Morgan said.

‘Oh. I’m so sorry. This is Jaslene Walker. You left me a message at my company saying you were a friend of Eden’s? You said it was important. And I have not had a free moment. I don’t know if Eden told you but I am a shoe designer and I have a show coming up, and the problems I have been having this time . . .’

Morgan felt like she was hearing the breezy chatter from far away. The voice on the phone evoked a mental image of a vibrant black woman with broad features and dreadlocks and the relaxed delivery of a person who spent a lot of time cajoling people on the phone. Morgan felt as if, when she opened her eyes, she would see this woman sitting beside her. ‘Yes. Eden told me,’ she said, as coherently as she could.

‘Should I call you back when you’re feeling better?’

‘It’s OK,’ said Morgan. Her head was aching, pounding.

‘What did you want to know about?’ asked Jaslene.

Morgan remembered that she had called Jaslene about the rape story. Wondering if Jaslene had been the one to tell Eden. But now she knew it had been Lucy. ‘Ah, it was nothing,’ said Morgan. She was eager to hang up. Her head was pounding and her lips were so dry she could barely speak. ‘Sorry I bothered you.’

‘How’s Eden doing? Did she get home all right?’ asked Jaslene

Morgan searched her mind for what to say. She was unable to make a long explanation. She couldn’t manage to be that coherent. ‘Yes. Fine,’ she said.

‘Well, I was so glad to meet her at last. She just loved being in Manhattan. I tried to talk her into staying and trying her luck, but she was determined to go back to that awful place.’

Morgan felt confused. She had blanked out for a moment and forgotten who this voice on the phone belonged to. ‘West Briar?’ she asked.

Jaslene laughed. ‘Is that where you are? West Briar. No. No. Not West Briar. West Virginia. Well, I probably shouldn’t judge. I was only there the one time. But that was enough. I went down there for Kimba’s funeral. Did you know Kimba? She was Eden’s mother.’

‘I didn’t. No,’ said Morgan.

‘Well, I’ll tell you what. No southern hospitality there. I got to the church, and that grandfather of Eden’s let me know that he didn’t want any of my kind at the funeral. If you know what I mean by “my kind”. It was so insulting.’

Even through her pain and stupor, Morgan recognized this as an appalling piece of information. And very believable from what she remembered of Wayne Summers. ‘Terrible man,’ she mumbled.

‘He WAS,’ said Jaslene. ‘I had to turn around and go right back to the hotel. I didn’t tell Eden that, though. She’s a little sweetie. It’s not her fault about her grandfather, and I didn’t want to lay that on her. I didn’t tell about her father either, for that matter.’

Morgan felt as if a small window had cleared in her brain. It was threatening to grow cloudy again, but she had the urgent sense that she needed to keep it clear. ‘About Guy? What about him?’ she asked.

‘Well,’ said Jaslene, in a confiding tone. ‘He was there, all alone, at Kimba’s funeral, looking all sad and hangdog. But he wasn’t alone at the hotel. Of course, there is only one hotel in that miserable little town and they stuffed me in some room that used to be a broom closet. Anyway, it turns out he was getting it on with a woman in his hotel room, the very day of his wife’s funeral.’

Morgan’s hands were gripping the phone. ‘Guy did that?’ said Morgan. ‘At Kimba’s funeral?’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Jaslene. ‘It made me wonder if Kimba’s father had been right about her death not being an accident. But I was so mad at that old man I just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. So, I packed my bags and left. After all, accident was the official verdict.

‘Well, as I say, I didn’t mention it to Eden because there’s no use in maligning the dead. But I could see him kissing that woman from my one little window in the back. I wasn’t peeping mind you. But they had the curtains open. All she was wearing was a bedsheet around her. A skinny little blonde with braids wrapped in a crown all around her head like something straight out of a Nazi wet dream.’

‘Who are you talking to, Morgan?’ Astrid asked. ‘Why don’t you call them back? You’re in no shape to be talking on the phone. Tell them you can’t talk. Here, give me that. I’ll tell them.’

Morgan looked over at Astrid. Though Astrid’s gaze was on the road, she was holding out her hand for the phone. The street lights filtering in through the car window made her platinum crown of braids look like a halo on top of her head.

THIRTY-ONE

‘
W
ho are you talking to?’ Astrid demanded.

Morgan did not reply. ‘Have to go. Thanks,’ she said into the phone. Then, she slipped the phone into her coat pocket.

‘Who was that?’ Astrid asked. ‘You were talking about Guy.’

‘Nothing. It was just . . . someone . . .’

‘What did they say about Kimba’s funeral?’

Morgan couldn’t think of a convincing lie, because her brain was in a fog. Try as she might, Morgan could not block the mental image of Guy with his stepmother, in a dark West Virginia hotel room. Astrid, wrapped in only a sheet. ‘Wasn’t important. I feel better now,’ she lied. ‘I want to go back to the house.’

‘Tell me what they said,’ said Astrid. ‘I have a right to know.’

Morgan looked out the car window. The street lights were becoming scarcer. Morgan frowned. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

‘On the way to the hospital,’ Astrid said. ‘I told you. Now what was that conversation all about? What did the person on the phone say? About Kimba’s funeral. Who was it?’

Morgan groaned. ‘Friend of Kimba’s. ’S all. Please, Astrid. Take me home.’

Astrid ignored Morgan’s obvious misery. ‘What did they say about Guy?’

‘Nothing. Guy was there,’ Morgan felt as if she needed to conserve her breath.

‘Of course Guy was there. That wasn’t all,’ Astrid said.

‘A woman. In his room.’ A wave of nausea rolled over Morgan, and her head felt as if it was being squeezed in a vice. ‘Oh, I feel like hell,’ Morgan groaned.

‘Why are you bringing up Kimba’s funeral now?’ Astrid said. ‘First you tell Fitz that Guy was a rapist. And now this.’

Morgan looked over at Astrid. ‘Fitz?’

‘After you left the Lobster Shack today, he told me what you said about Guy. He was furious about it. He knew it for what it was – a disgusting lie. You don’t care who you hurt. You will say anything.’

‘Lucy told me,’ said Morgan.

Astrid ignored her. ‘Lucy’s like a child. She doesn’t know any better. You’re slandering Guy when he can’t defend himself.’

Morgan realized, in a sudden dizzying moment of clarity, that what Astrid said was true. Of course the rape story had been a lie. Guy had not raped Astrid that afternoon at their home. Or any other time. She was willing. It had never been rape. That was a lie Astrid made up to tell Lucy. To cover her affair with her stepson. And ever after, the loyal Lucy kept the secret, hated her brother. Morgan swallowed the bile in her mouth. ‘Take me home,’ she whispered.

Astrid ignored her and continued to drive.

‘Astrid?’ Morgan asked.

Astrid did not reply.

Morgan tried to summon her dignity, which was difficult since she was on the verge of passing out, and doubled over in pain. She forced herself to enunciate. ‘Please, pull over,’ she said. ‘I want to get out.’

‘You’ll get out when I say you get out,’ said Astrid. She put her foot on the gas and the car began to fly down the road.

‘Astrid, stop,’ Morgan said.

‘Oh, no. I can see your filthy mind at work.’

‘My filthy mind?’

Astrid was shaking her head. ‘After all we’ve been through. I won’t let you do this to me. To my family.’

All at once, Morgan realized, through her misery, that Astrid wasn’t taking her to the hospital. Wherever they were going, it was not to get help for Morgan. And she was a prisoner in this car, at Astrid’s mercy. ‘Astrid. Please,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’ve suffered.’

‘You don’t know anything,’ said Astrid.

All pretense seemed to have vanished, and Morgan suddenly knew that she was in danger. Though her brain was cottony, she tried to consider her options. She thought about opening the door and rolling out of the car, but at this speed, that would surely be a deadly move. She thought about the phone in her pocket. She might be able to call the police, but the minute she tried to punch in a number, Astrid would hear the singsong beeps and surely rip the phone from her hand. Morgan knew she was no match for the other woman in this condition. She was too weak. Despite the imminent danger, it was difficult for her to hold on to consciousness.

She thought about her phone and her conversation with Fitz earlier in the day. ‘I’m going to make myself number one on your speed-dial,’ he had said, as he fiddled with her phone. Had he actually done it? She hadn’t checked. She slipped her hand in her pocket and opened the phone. Even in her numbed state of mind, she realized that the minute she pressed a button, Astrid would hear the beep. Morgan needed to mask the sound. Her stomach was churning, both from fear, and from the poison she had ingested. She was sure, now, that the soup had been laced with some drug. Something that was at once making her physically sick and stealing her mental clarity. This suffering was no coincidence.

Don’t vomit, Astrid had said in her motherly way. And Morgan had followed her advice. Obviously, Morgan thought, it was time to ignore Astrid’s every suggestion. Morgan fingered the flat keypad. She had to hope that she could hit the right number without looking at the phone. She clutched the phone with one sweaty hand, and with the other, she stuck a finger down her throat. As she coughed and gagged, she retched up a viscous mess on Astrid’s center console gearshift. At the same time, she pressed the phone’s keypad and prayed.

‘Stop that,’ Astrid cried out in disgust as the car swerved. She pulled it back into the center of the road.

Morgan retched again to cover the faraway sound of a recorded voice in her pocket which said, to her despair, ‘It’s Fitz. Leave a message.’

‘All right,’ Astrid snarled. ‘That’s enough.’ She drove over to the side of road. Morgan could hear the sound of waves crashing on the beach. The tide was high, and waves were breaking only a short distance from the dunes. ‘Get out.’

‘Can’t,’ Morgan pleaded, shaking her head. ‘I’m too sick.’

‘Give me your phone,’ Astrid demanded.

Morgan hesitated, and shook her head.

‘Give it to me. NOW,’ Astrid insisted. ‘Or I will take it from you.’

Morgan reached in her pocket to pull out the phone. Groping around, she felt an unfamiliar shape and then she remembered. The scissors she had used to cut down the balloons from the mailbox. They were still in her pocket.

Morgan felt a kind of vague steadying inside herself. She was not helpless. She just needed to pick her moment. She pulled out the phone and handed it to Astrid. Astrid shoved it in her own pocket. Then, she jerked the keys from the ignition and started around to the passenger side. Morgan locked the passenger door quickly. Astrid tried the passenger door, found it locked, and jammed the key in the lock. Morgan tried to hold the door shut, but her limbs felt like they were made out of toothpaste. Astrid jerked the door open.

‘NO, please,’ Morgan begged her. ‘Let’s just get to the hospital.’

Astrid grabbed Morgan by the hair, and Morgan let out a howl of pain.

‘Come on,’ said Astrid. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘Let go!’ Morgan tried to pry Astrid’s hands away, but Astrid held the hair tight in her fist. It felt like she was uprooting it from Morgan’s scalp.

‘Now,’ Astrid insisted.

Maybe it would be better to be out of the car, Morgan thought. She tried to do as she was told, but her legs were too weak to obey. Astrid jerked her ponytail and Morgan fell from the car to the ground. She had landed on a mixture of dirt, sand and tall grass.

‘I’ve had enough,’ Astrid muttered indignantly, ‘of your interference and your legal strategies. You are not going to prevent Claire from being punished for what she did.’

Morgan coughed, relieved, at least, that Astrid had let go of her hair. ‘She didn’t do it,’ Morgan whispered.

‘What did you say?’ Astrid demanded.

‘She didn’t kill the baby,’ Morgan said.

Even in the moonlight Morgan could see that Astrid’s eyes were electric. ‘The baby? Who’s talking about the baby? I’m talking about Guy.’

‘Sorry. I know,’ said Morgan. ‘He was your son.’

Astrid slapped Morgan as hard as she could across the face.

Morgan fell on all fours in the sand, her face stinging, the dampness seeping through the knees of her pants. She wanted to put her head down and rest it there, in the cold sand. She shook her head to try and clear it, and then rocked back on her heels, holding her stomach to assuage the stabbing pains.

‘You don’t know anything,’ Astrid cried.

To Morgan’s amazement, Astrid’s eyes filled with tears. She looked out across the ocean, rolling relentlessly in under the impassive moon. ‘He wasn’t my son. He was my . . . my fate.’

‘Fate?’ Morgan whispered.

‘From the very first minute we saw each other. When he walked into the lobby of my parents’ hotel . . . He was fifteen years old and I was . . . older. But we both knew it.’

Morgan blinked at her.

Astrid sighed. ‘We knew what the world would think. We had to hide what we felt.’ Astrid looked pityingly at Morgan. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

Astrid’s tale of love was like some opium dream that Morgan had entered into, as she felt herself sinking, her consciousness fading in and out. ‘Yes. I . . . I do,’ Morgan insisted. And, in fact, at that moment, she did.

‘I did what I had to do. I married Guy’s father and left my home. My family. I did everything so that I could live under the same roof with Guy. And we stole every moment together that we could. For all these years.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said Morgan. Chills were coursing through Morgan, and she didn’t know whether it was from the poison, or the cold, or the fascinated revulsion she felt as she listened to Astrid reminisce about her long affair with her stepson. She had the impression that Astrid had been suddenly released from bondage. That she was experiencing joy in finally telling someone aloud about her love.

Astrid gaze was far away. ‘Nothing could break us apart,’ she said.

‘He got married . . .’ Morgan remembered aloud. Her mental censor was failing her. She spoke without thinking.

‘To Kimba?’ Astrid laughed dismissively. ‘He was a young man. She meant nothing to him. Kimba trapped him with a pregnancy.’ Astrid gave a little half-smile, remembering. ‘I freed him.’

Morgan’s head was splitting. She felt as if it would soon break open, two halves facing up, under the stars. She knew she should cover her ears. Not listen to one more word from Astrid. But it was a siren song, a tale of love that, perversely, she wanted to hear. Wanted to know. And Astrid meant to tell it.

‘I told Dick I was going to a Prader-Willi conference. My husband wasn’t suspicious. I often did that. I attended those meetings to learn all I could about Lucy’s condition. New therapies. Techniques. I did everything I could to help my Lucy . . .’

The story was becoming fragmented in Morgan’s mind. ‘Kimba?’ Morgan prodded her.

Astrid sighed. ‘Kimba. I knew where they were staying. I’m from the Caribbean. I went there. I knew they would go diving. Guy loves to dive. We both do. They went out on another boat. All the boats stop in the same vicinity because the large turtles feed there. Once we were in the water, I slipped into Guy and Kimba’s diving group. It was an easy matter to come up behind Kimba, and turn down the air on her tank. Not all the way, but just enough so that she would notice it. Feel the oxygen diminish. Be afraid. Panic. Break for the surface too fast. I knew she would. She was a novice.’

Morgan was mesmerized, in spite of all her misery. She knew, dimly, that this was a confession of murder. She knew that she should close her ears and not listen to another word. It was so dangerous to know. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

Astrid ignored her. ‘I never told Guy. If he guessed, he didn’t say . . .’

Morgan’s teeth were chattering but her core was warm. The drugs were suffused through her system now. The pain was almost gone. ‘Claire?’ she whispered.

Astrid looked at Morgan calmly. ‘I gave Claire a sleeping pill that night at our house. She asked me for it. She wanted to sleep. Late that night, I let myself in. She never heard me. I took the baby and put him in the tub. I knew Guy would blame her. Turn away from her when he realized that she had killed their baby.’

Something was pinging in Morgan’s brain, a distant, urgent memory, insisting on her attention. ‘He loved Claire,’ Morgan said dreamily.