From Scratch (24 page)

Sean knew his face reflected calm, years of training ensured a placid demeanor, but he could feel a burning swell in his stomach as the image of her, young and trusting, was etched into his mind. He had been trained not to anticipate, to let the evidence tell the story, but his logical brain was linking puzzle pieces together. Her thumb caressed the back of his hand and caused a wave of innocent yearning to wash over him, cooling the angry heat steadily growing.

Her eyes were without tears or a hint of emotion floating on the surface. “I left for New York a week after school let out. Uncle Jack wasn't thrilled with me being gone again, but when an assignment called him out of the country, he didn't have much ammunition to have me stay in D.C. alone. I was excited to spend the summer doing anything but more school work. I realize that it must seem that theater majors have it easy, but we have just as much studying and training as the hardest engineering major. It's just different. My classmates were spending their summers in workshops or performing at amusement parks, but I was grateful not to have to perform. I felt as if all I'd been doing for the past year was performing, on and off stage, and I was tired. And the bonus, Sam's rookie camp was only an hour away from the retreat at a local college. We made plans to see each other on the weekends. He even thought he might be able to come down for an occasional dinner.”

An easy smile lifted her lips and softened her eyes. “The first few weeks at the retreat center were wonderful. We had chapel every morning and teachings every afternoon. I spent most days studying Scripture and The Mission guide. The whole thing was a little too group-sharing-commune-living for me to consider full time, but for the summer it worked. The kids were fun to teach, mostly songs we'd sung in Sunday school when I was little. But all and all it was restful, except for Mitchell. He seemed to think that since I'd chosen to come to the retreat that I'd come with him. He ate every meal with me. Sat beside me in chapel and afternoon teachings. It was as if he wanted everyone to think he owned me.”

She swallowed deeply, pushing down something he wasn't sure he was ready to hear.

“One morning, I got up super early to go for a run—way before anyone in the camp would be up. I locked the door to my cabin, turned around and he was sitting on a rock, just staring at me. He asked if he could run with me, but I told him that I needed to spend some time praying.

“That was two weeks into the summer and the first time all of Sam's and my roommates' warnings started to sink in. We weren't allowed to have cell phones at the retreat, so I booked the five miles to the nearest gas station. My uncle was unreachable, one of the consequences of his job, so I called Sam collect. By the time the call connected, I felt like I was overreacting. When I told Sam what happened, he flipped. He made me promise to stay at the gas station. Wait on the bench and not leave. He told me he would be there in under an hour.” She dropped Sean's hands, scrubbed at her face, stood again, and went back to the window.

“Three hours went by, with me sitting on the little bench in front of the gas station, and no Sam.” As she spoke, she laced her arms over her middle, hugging herself tight. “I was worried, but I wasn't sure what to do. Should I go back to the retreat, maybe he was there? What if he was lost? What if his car had broken down? The mile of ‘what if's' that ran through my brain would've exhausted the most conditioned Olympic athlete. I kept feeling as if it was the night of my parents' accident all over again.”

Sean slid up behind her, folding his arms over hers and easing her back to his chest. He rested his chin on her head.

“Thanks.” She sighed, relaxing against him.

He brushed a light kiss on her temple. “Anytime. I'm a public servant.”

“And I'm thankful to be a member of the public.” She chuckled through her tears. “But I hope you aren't treating Sissy Jenkins to this kind of service.”

“I reserve this for our special citizens. Sissy is special in an entirely different way.”

Her faint smile reflected in the glass.

“Gotcha.” She released a deep breath. “So, there I was. Sitting on this little bench outside of the gas station, a disaster in tears, and a local Sheriff pulled into the parking spot in front of me. He'd been called to look for me. When he started to put me in the car, I began screaming for Sam. People were watching me in horror.” She opened her eyes and met his in the reflection. “I remember this mother yanked her little girl behind her, I guess to shield her from the crazy, but I didn't care. Something was wrong. I knew it.”

With the first warm wet drop on his arm, Sean drew her in snug against him.

Sobs begin to wrack her tiny frame. “I k-kept yelling at the S-sh-sheriff to go look for Sam, but he wouldn't l-l-listen to me. He said they were w-w-worried about me at the retreat, and he needed to take me back. He said he d-didn't know anything about Sam. I remember crying and crying until I felt as if I was going to throw up.”

Sean turned her in his arms. Tears chased after tears down her face. He hugged her wishing he could absorb the pain from the wound that was being reopened. He wanted to jump in, to tell her the pieces he had filled in on his own, but he kissed the top of her head, lightly caressed her back, and encouraged her to keep talking. Only she had the right to share her life.

“The Sheriff drove me back to the retreat compound. About two miles from the camp, we passed a cluster of emergency vehicles on the opposite side. I yelled at him to stop and thankfully, he did. I barely waited for him to put the car in park. I threw open the door and ran to the rim of the ravine where the crews were working. I remember firemen holding me back from the edge, the rocks slipping under my feet. When I saw the taillights of Sam's car, I started screaming again. I shouted, ‘Save him, please save him.' I knew they had to hurry.” She lifted her gaze to his. “They needed to hurry, to h-help him. To save him. But it was too late.” Her voice lowered to a broken whisper. “They said his brakes were faulty. That he'd taken the turn to quickly. But I knew the truth. It was my fault he was gone. Just like my parents. It was all my fault.” She broke away from Sean, went to the kitchen, lifted the teapot and lowered it under the tap. “You want some more tea?”

Sean closed the small space and gently placed his hand over hers. “Maggie…Maggie, look at me.”

Her eyes were soggy with shed tears and make-up was smudged, but she was under control and so lovely she broke his heart. With his free hand he lightly caressed her cheek. “Maggie, none of this is your fault. None of it.”

She yanked away and slammed the teapot onto the stove. “Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I know that it was a drunk driver who killed my parents and that Sam was the victim of horrible accident? I know it in my mind, but my heart won't let me rest.” She pounded her chest with her fist. “If it wasn't for me they would all be alive. My rational mind understands that logically I didn't cause any of this to happen, but my heart continues to feed my guilt.”

He dropped his hands to her shoulders. “But God doesn't want you to live with that guilt anymore.”

“I know.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I know. And most of the time I believe it. Like ninety percent of the time. But when I go through the whole thing, I have a hard time acquitting myself.”

He tugged her into his arms. “Maggie, tell me the rest. Get it all out.” He was sure there was more to the story. She needed to be free. And the only way to freedom was through truth.

“Do you mind if we sit?”

He led her back to the sofa, cradling her against his side as they sat.

Sean willed himself to remain silent. He stroked his hand up and down her arm; her head rested on his shoulder.

“I left the retreat that day.” Her voice was low again. “Mitchell wanted to drive me home, back to D.C., but I insisted I'd be all right. One of the girls who shared my cabin helped me pack. She was pretty quiet most of the time, but that afternoon she asked me if the boy who'd fought Mitchell was the same one who'd died.” She shook her head as if she could erase the memory from her mind. “I dropped on the bed, clothes still in my hands, and asked her to tell me everything that had happened earlier. She said that a young man she hadn't seen before was arguing with Mitchell and she heard my name.”

She twisted to look at Sean. “It didn't make any sense to me. Sam knew I was at the gas station. Why would he go to the retreat center? I left the girl in my cabin and ran outside to find Mitchell. He was with this group of leaders talking in hushed tones, but I didn't care. I went straight up to him and started yelling. His eyes were filled with…with this cold fury. With a snap of his wrist, he backhanded me across the mouth, grabbed my arm and dragged me away from the group. I can remember the acid taste of the blood as it filled my mouth, but I think I was more shocked than anything. I didn't respond. I just let him haul me half way across the camp with no fight.”

Sean felt the white heat of temper and he instinctively squeezed Maggie closer.

“When we got to my cabin, the girl who was helping me took one look at Mitchell and ran out the back door. He threw me on my bed and started pacing the room. He told me he had enough. He was tired of chasing after me. Of me pretending that God hadn't sent us to each other. He started quoting Scripture and interweaving it with parts of The Mission guide, parts about God's ordination of certain unions to be supreme unions, or something like that. He believed God spoke to him and meant for the two of us to be together. He grabbed my chin and looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Why else would Sam have died, if not for us to be together?'”

Sean smoothed a curl behind her ear. “He told you this on the day your boyfriend died?”

She nodded. “I didn't know what to do. He looked so…so…sane. I just knew I needed to get away from him, from the retreat center, from The Mission, from everything. And I needed to do it in a hurry. I pulled out every trick I'd learned in the last year of acting classes. I told him that it was a lot to think about and I needed to pray. I asked him to leave so I could be alone with God and his mouth twisted into this off-centered smile. He told me he could be patient, ‘that was what love was all about,' he said. And then he kissed my forehead. I must have scrubbed that spot a hundred times, and it still didn't feel clean for months.

“I threw the rest of my stuff in my bag and raced out to my car. I'd locked my cell-phone in my glove compartment and called my Uncle Jack's emergency line on the way back to D.C. It's almost an eight hour drive and I made it in seven flat. I didn't stop except to get gas. I locked myself in my uncle's apartment and didn't answer the door for three days, not until he got home.”

“Maggie, what exactly does your uncle do?”

A faint grin touched her lips. “I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think he might be a spy or some kind of law enforcement special agent. I know he works for the government in a classified division and he travels a lot.”

More puzzle pieces. They were all fitting neatly together. And most of the picture made his stomach churn.

“Uncle Jack called a friend in the Justice Department and they arranged for a restraining order against Mitchell. I tried to put the whole incident—the whole year—in a box and forget about it. I let my uncle handle all of the legal hurdles and I went about trying to grieve and to start over…again. I didn't go back to Maryland. It was too hard to be at school. All of the memories and the possibility of Mitchell being around any corner. I told Uncle Jack I needed some time. Time to figure out what was next. I got a job at a coffee shop near his apartment. And that fall I auditioned for a regional theater production. I was the understudy for one of the main characters and sang in the chorus. I was thrilled to be working. To be able to set the past behind me, even for a little while. Each day that I was further away from that day, I started to imagine it hadn't happened. Maybe it had just been an accident.”

“But it wasn't an accident, was it, Maggie?”

She shook her head. “A week into the play's run, I was called to understudy. I was excited, but also shocked. Understudies almost never get called the first week of the run, especially in regional theater. I went on and I was OK, not great, but OK.”

“I highly doubt that. Remember, I've heard you sing.”

“You might be a little biased. But when I left the theater, Mitchell was standing in the alley with a dozen white lilies. I've never been so frightened. He told me what a wonderful performance I had given and handed me the flowers. He leaned in to kiss me and I started to scream, but he grabbed my jaw, his hand was like a vise.”

“I reminded him about the restraining order. He threw me into the alley wall and started to chuckle. He said, ‘No piece of paper will stand in the way of God's will, my dearest.' He went on to talk about how God brought us together and nothing would ever separate us. He kept going on and on—long enough for me to dial 911 and the police to arrive. They took him away, but he was out in the morning.”

“I left D.C. and moved to Miami the next day. Worked in a restaurant waiting tables and got in another show. Four shows into the run, I looked into the audience and he was sitting front row center. I almost threw up on stage. I made sure to leave with other cast mates and went straight to the airport. That was my last performance. The last time I sang in public before today.

“After the incident in D.C., Uncle Jack and I developed a plan to help me run. I spent the next six years hopping from New York to Chicago to Houston and everywhere in between. Uncle Jack had the restraining order registered in every state in the U.S., but no matter where I moved, within a few weeks or months Mitchell would track me down. His violence escalated with each incident, but nothing his parents' lawyers couldn't get him out of.”