House Of Secrets (10 page)

“Most likely,” I admitted. “She sometimes caused problems with neighbors, as well as the church folks. I think Dad felt the need to relocate and start over in hopes of pretending things could eventually get better. I think he hoped that sooner or later Mom would find the right blend of medications and actually take them on a regular basis. But she didn’t. She was convinced the doctors meant to do her harm.”

“Why didn’t Dad have her put away?” Piper asked. “He obviously knew how dangerous she’d become—at least there at the end. Why didn’t he do something like that instead of . . . kill her?”

Geena spoke before I could. “Because it’s not that easy to put someone away. The years of ridding yourself of crazy relatives is long past. There were so many false cases—situations where folks just wanted to put away wealthy relatives so they could take over their estates, for example, that laws were changed. You can’t just force a person into treatment anymore.”

“But couldn’t the courts have done it?” Piper asked, her voice cracking.

“Dad tried.” They both looked at me. “He tried to have her committed several times. From what I saw, however, the court interviews were never more than fifteen or twenty minutes and Mom appeared perfectly rational. One judge even commented that she was the epitome of reason and sanity and he wondered if the husband wasn’t the one with issues.”

Piper shook her head. “Well, you’re just full of knowledge.”

Geena gave me a rebuking look. I could see they were both more than a little angry. “Believe me, I really wanted to say something much sooner, but I was . . . well, I was afraid. Afraid you’d be angry at me. And obviously you are.”

Ignoring my excuse, Geena spoke. “I’ve studied this from a legal perspective. I can easily see the situation happening just the way you’ve described. That’s why there are so many mentally unstable people out on the streets. It’s why some family members just walk away, never to be heard from again. Mental health can’t seem to strike a happy medium.”

“So crazy people are just allowed to call the shots and in turn risk the lives of children and others?” Piper asked.

I’d asked the same questions most of my life, but I simply said, “They have rights too.”

Geena was less concerned. “Unfortunately, their inability to understand what’s happening to them, or to convince themselves that medications can be useful in keeping them on even footing, tends to send them veering across the line where their rights end and ours begin.”

Piper looked like she might well be sick. “Well, if Mom was crazy—if she was schizophrenic like you say and did all those horrible things—someone should have considered what she was doing to us . . . what a danger she was to us.”

“Someone did,” Geena said, meeting my gaze.

For several minutes none of us said another word. I could see that they were thinking the same thing I was. Maybe we shouldn’t say anything about our father’s deed. Maybe it was best to bury this in the past and leave it there. After all, if he’d tried to get Mom help, and I knew he had, then maybe he had been as desperate to protect us as the courts were to protect Mom. Maybe it really came down to his believing there was no other alternative.

My heart ached at the thought of him struggling to figure out how to keep his children safe from the woman he loved—the mother of those same children. If he divorced her and left Mom to her own devices, she would most likely have died anyway. And, she probably would have found a way to take one of us—if not all of us—with her. If he’d put down ultimatums, it might only have caused Mom to do something rash. I couldn’t think of a single solution that didn’t involve the potential for further danger to us.

“I have to do this for the girls. It’s for them. They will be safe.”
His words echoed over and over in my mind.

Tears came to my eyes. I hadn’t allowed such a show of emotion in a long, long time. I had thought, in fact, that I was cried out. I refused to give in to my sorrow and blinked back the drops. How could we move forward with our plan to talk to him? How could we betray the only one who had done what he could to protect us?

My mind rebelled against my heart. It was murder. It was wrong—even for such a necessary and noble purpose. How could I condemn my father for doing the only thing left for him to do? How could I not condemn him for such a heinous act?

B
y three in the morning I still couldn’t sleep. I paced my room like a caged animal and found it impossible to relax. I opened a window and drew in a deep breath. Outside, the moon’s reflection in the water beckoned me. I pulled on sweats and sneakers and headed downstairs and out of the house.

I took the stone steps down to the beachfront, careful to hold on to the rail. Dad had built it when we were children, telling all of us that the slippery surface could prove deadly and that we must always use the railing. Old habits weren’t easily put aside.

A damp, chilly breeze made me glad I’d grabbed a jacket just before exiting the back door. As I reached the beach, I zipped the coat up and stood for a long time just staring out at the water. The setting reminded me of Mark. He’d once asked me to take a moonlight dinner cruise with him in Boston Harbor. He’d said it was purely business, but I’d declined, thinking it sounded dangerously romantic. In this day and age of sexual harassment lawsuits, I was surprised that Mark continued to express an interest in me. Maybe he knew I wasn’t the suing type. Or perhaps he saw the longing in my eyes.

Jamming my hands down into the pockets of my jacket, I walked for a short distance, listening to the water lap against the shore and dock. I remembered a time when Dad had rented a boat for us. We had spent the entire day on Puget Sound. Momma had refused to come for some reason, but Dad wouldn’t be deterred. He loaded us girls in our life jackets and away we went. That day would stand out as one of the few childhood memories that made me happy.

I had been eleven that summer, and I wanted nothing more than to get in that boat and float away to some far-off place. I didn’t want to come back to the house or to the routine of school and Mom’s problems. I hadn’t realized until now just how depressed I’d been. I’d always pictured myself as having it together—feeling very grown up and wise. Now, however, I knew those feelings had merely been cover-ups for the truth. I was terrified and tired, and those things had led me to depression.

Why depression? Why not anger or anxiety?

“But I was angry and anxious too,” I reasoned. Somewhere down the beach I heard a dog bark, but otherwise I was completely alone. I stopped again and focused on the sky. The stars were visible, but I knew very little about them. I used to imagine that I could connect all of them together and make some incredible picture. Of course, that’s exactly what I had tried to do with my family as well.

“I really wanted to believe we could be a happy family. I wanted the perfect life—the happy mother and father, the well-adjusted children.” If only I could have connected all the dots.

A sense of weariness washed over me. I felt really old. I had been born old, I thought. There was never a time when I remembered acting or feeling like a little child. I felt the weight of responsibility for so much, so early. People had always commented on what a serious child I was. In fact, I remember once sitting at a birthday party watching a magic show. The man was doing his best to keep the audience in stitches of laughter, but I wasn’t impressed. I was bored. I knew the magic wasn’t real. It seemed I’d known that all of my life.

I walked back toward the house. I’d left the back light on to find my way. It illuminated the deck and yard below just enough to paint shadowy figures across the width of our property. The tall yews and cedar rose up like towering guardians, keepers of the land who sheltered us away from view and maintained our secrets. It gave me a chill. If I walked into the water—slipped beneath the blackness—no one would ever know. I would simply be . . . gone. The trees would bear witness, but never evidence.

Frowning, I questioned where those thoughts had come from. I wasn’t suicidal. I didn’t have any intention of ending my life. I just wanted the past to die once and for all. Was that really too much to ask?

I climbed the steps to the deck and plopped down on a cushioned chair near the rail. Gazing heavenward, I shook my head. “What am I supposed to do?”

Only the sounds of the night echoed back. I hugged my arms to my chest and felt overwhelmed with a sense of loss. Tears came unbidden, and though I wanted nothing more than to buck up and be strong, I had no strength left.

I mourned my lost childhood and the mother I might have known. I thought of girls I’d gone to school with and how much I’d envied their lives. Their mothers took them on shopping trips and weekend lunch dates. Their mothers showed up for school functions and shared in their daughter’s accomplishments. More important—they wanted their mothers to be there.

Anger replaced my sorrow. I thought of Piper’s accusation that I could have put an end to it. I gazed upward. “God, you could have stopped it from happening, but you didn’t.”

This time, instead of the silence, I heard an audible voice. “Yes, I could have, but I didn’t. What will you do with me now?”

I jumped up and looked around me. The voice had been so startlingly clear—so real. Yet there was no one there. The idea struck me that someone might be playing a trick on me. Someone might have been walking on the beach just like I had been. They might have heard me talking to myself.

But I wasn’t talking to myself. I had actually uttered a sort of prayer. Had God answered me?

I reconsidered my words. God could have stopped the hideousness that was my childhood. He could have given me a normal life, with a mother who wasn’t crazy. But He didn’t. He let it happen. He didn’t intervene and He didn’t heal.

“What will you do with me now?”
the voice had asked.

Was it really possible that God had spoken to me? Did He do that? Talk to everyday people who were accusing Him? To a woman who had given up on Him years ago? Or was I crazy too?

I thought of my father and Mark. They both claimed a life that now included time spent with God. Mark talked about God like He was a personal friend—someone who might answer the phone anytime I called. How could that be? Why would the God of the universe even want to take time for me and my questions?

What will you do with me now?

The question whispered in my heart. I hesitantly retook my seat and looked up once again. “Are you really there?”

I shook my head and stared at the water again. “I suppose that was a stupid question.”

“There are no stupid questions when they are about me.”

Again the voice seemed so real I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t heard it. Was I losing my mind? Was this a sign that I had inherited my mother’s schizophrenia?

Fear gripped me. I had always told myself that if I made it to thirty without any signs of mental illness, I would probably be safe. Now I was hearing voices.

“Hey, Bailee,” Mark announced on the other end of the phone. I struggled to wake up as he continued. “I have a new project for you if you’re still interested.” I yawned and looked at the clock. It was nearly eight. I should have been up an hour ago, but then again I hadn’t gotten to sleep until nearly five.

“Of course I’m interested.”

“You sound tired. Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, but it’s no big deal. I was awake until . . . well . . . I was restless.”

“Wanna talk about it?” His voice soothed me.

“First tell me about the project.”

“I emailed it to you already. I knew you’d say yes. It’s nothing difficult—one of those tell-alls by the former nanny of the latest Hollywood ‘It’ couple. Nothing but a straightforward copy edit.”

I suppressed another yawn and got out of bed. “When’s it due?”

“I’d like it back by a week from next Wednesday. Can you manage that?”

“No problem.” It would mean less time to spend with my new stepmother and father, but that didn’t bother me. Without giving it a second thought, I asked Mark the question that burned in my mind. “Does God talk to people?”

“Of course He does.” The matter-of-fact answer silenced me, so Mark continued. “Why do you ask? Is He talking to you?”

“Would it surprise you if I said yes?”

“Not at all.”

His utter ease with the idea almost irked me. “Mark, I’m serious. I’m either hearing voices or God answered me when I asked Him something.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Maybe Mark was stunned by the fact that I’d talked to God. Maybe he was worried just as I was that I had somehow lost my mind.

“It’s been my experience that God always meets people where they are—when they need Him most. Can I ask you something?”

I shrugged and walked to my window. “Why not?” I pulled back the curtain. Raising the blinds, I gazed out on the cloudy skies. Looked like rain.

“What did you ask God?”

I frowned. I didn’t really want to have to explain, but it was my own fault for having started this conversation. “It wasn’t really a question. It was more of a statement.”

He chuckled. “So what did you state?”

For a moment I toyed with ending the conversation. Finally I decided to give him a brief explanation. “I had been thinking of something that happened when I was young. I reminded God that He could have stopped it, but He didn’t.”

“And what did you hear Him say?” Mark’s voice was tender.

“He agreed with me,” I said, barely able to vocalize the answer. “And . . . He . . . well, He asked me a question.” I suddenly felt really silly. “Look, let’s just forget it.”

“Why?”

How could I possibly explain without giving him the details of my life? Details that I would just as soon forget.

“Bailee?”

“I’m here.” I didn’t know what else to say.

He seemed to understand. “I really care about you. I want to help if I can.”

“I know,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened or what God asked you, but isn’t it time to face the truth?”

I nearly dropped the phone. “What do you mean, the truth?”

“You’ve reached out to God, and He’s reaching back. It might not look like what you thought it would, but it’s there just the same.”

“How can you be sure it’s God and not just me losing my mind?”

“I suppose I would base it on whether what He says lines up with who He is and what He says in the Bible.”

“He told me I was right and that He could have stopped it. And then He asked what I would do with Him now,” I blurted.

“And what was your answer?”

I couldn’t believe that I’d just told Mark something so extreme and he wasn’t even questioning the validity. I looked at the floor and wondered how to reply. If I was honest, I would have to tell him that I didn’t have an answer.

“I think the hardest thing I’ve ever had to face,” Mark began, “is the realization that God can do anything, and yet sometimes—”

“Does nothing,” I murmured.

“Or so it seems.” He was full of compassion as he continued. “It seems that God sits idle while the innocent suffer.”

“Yes.” I wanted to say more, but I knew to do so would require an explanation that I wasn’t yet ready to give.

“But He doesn’t, you know. He has given man free will and allows us to make our choices. But He is never idle, and we are never alone. Even in those moments when we believe we are.”

“Bailee!”

It was Geena calling from the hallway. “I have to go,” I told Mark. “My sisters need me.” I hung up without waiting for him to answer and went to the door.

“What is it?” I asked, opening the door.

“It’s Piper. She’s missing.”