Still Mine (17 page)

“Below? Jared was one of the trapped miners?”

“He was the good news story. Handsome guy, married to the foreman’s daughter, taking charge, keeping all the guys from killing each other in the chamber. Made up for everyone who died. Once they pulled him out and he did a few interviews, all the reporters felt they could pack up and leave. He was the only worthwhile story.”

“Imagine,” Clare says.

“Shayna loved it. Jared lost nothing and he still got to be the hero. She didn’t want the attention to die down.”

Sara leans forward, her elbows propped on her knees, her face blank. Imagine. Men darting as the earth caved in around them, hedging their bets on which way to run. Jared Fowles made the right choice, and Sara’s husband didn’t, Sara’s life forever altered by someone else’s mistake. In her previous life, Clare often wondered whether widowhood might be better than her marriage, whether it could seem like freedom in comparison. She used to think of the police knocking with news of an accident at the factory, those same officers who’d arrived at her door just a little too long after she’d called them, cowering in her bedroom, begging for help. Clare wondered whether it would take effort to feign grief. But feign it she would have. She would have done a better job than Jared, or anyone else in Blackmore. Where was their grief?

“No one talks,” Sara says. “No one ever talks about this stuff.”

“I’m not trying to pry,” Clare says, a lie.

Sara turns a wary gaze on Clare. “What do
you
have to talk about?”

“Nothing,” Clare says. “For me there was nothing to salvage. The story’s over. You’re still here, at least. That’s more than you can say about Shayna.”

“You know the worst part?” Sara says. “I wished it on her many times. Danny loved her. Everyone did. I hated her for it. I wanted her gone.”

“Friendship can be complicated,” Clare says.

“I like to think that I’m a pretty good friend,” Sara says. “I’d help her out. Hired her to look after Danny. Listened to her whine about Jared. I did a lot for her. She was incapable of gratitude.”

“Maybe she resented your goodwill,” Clare says, thinking of Grace.

“Maybe, but it wasn’t just me. She worked her way through everyone. She’d latch on to you and give you the world, and then she’d bail. She’d flirt with Charlie right in front of me. He was in her sights. She had no shame.”

“Wouldn’t Wilfred kill her for dating Charlie?”

“That was the point. She made a sport out of pissing off her father. When Charlie sued Wilf, Shayna offered to testify. Tell the court that her own father hated the Merritts and bragged about killing them off. Anything to butter Charlie up. But she was such a junkie that Charlie’s lawyer wouldn’t even let her on the stand. They knew she’d be crucified. A junkie whoring herself out for the drugs.”

“Does Wilfred know that?”

“That his daughter’s a traitor? It’s no big secret.”

Clare will have to write everything down, keep it straight somehow, all these details, riddles. Sara could be making this all up, and Shayna is not here to defend herself. Back home, Clare thinks, people might be inventing all sorts of stories about her, about her husband, reasons why she might be gone, death or dalliances or affairs, rumors about abuse or infidelity, whatever makes for the best tale. When you don’t leave a clear story behind, Clare knows, someone will make one up for you.

“Tomorrow’s my birthday,” Sara says, her knees bouncing.

“Do you have any plans?”

“Ray’s, I guess. Pops will have the boy for the night.”

“I met your father-in-law today at the parade.”

“He told me.”

“He seems nice.”

“He tries.”

“I could come over,” Clare says. “Bake you a cake or something. Keep things quiet. We could hang out.”

“Charlie doesn’t do quiet.”

“Well, I’m game for whatever you have planned.”

Sara nods. Clare’s clothes will be dry by now, but she stays on the bench with Sara and watches the street below, a lone pedestrian ambling empty-handed up the sidewalk. Hot and cold as she is, rough and prickly and even unfriendly, these talks between Clare and Sara, these little confessionals, might be what Sara sees as the start of a friendship, another female finally in her midst, a more suitable match to Clare than the faultless Grace. But Clare was never a good friend. She never held Grace’s son, though he was born two weeks before she left. By then there was no warmth left in her, no desire to ask forgiveness again, no strength to cradle someone else’s baby in her arms.

Clare feels a tug of loneliness, her eyes closing in a effort to call up Grace’s features. When she opens her eyes again Sara has edged away from her on the bench. Clare knows she can’t trust her. She knows there is more to Sara’s story, some crucial detail she isn’t sharing. She also knows better than to wish the events of her life reversed, to waste time regretting the choices that brought her to this place. These people in Blackmore, they are not Clare’s friends, Derek and Jared and Sara and Charlie. They are not even one another’s friends. They were not Shayna’s friends. They are only characters in Shayna’s story, and Shayna is not here.

L
ouise sleeps, her wrists relaxed in the restraints. The clock reads 4:50 p.m.

She asked for you, Eleanor said when Clare returned for her clothes.

Clare tries to match her breathing to Louise’s, but it takes a concerted effort to slow hers down, to draw in through her nose. Louise opens her eyes and shifts to face Clare.

“Is he gone?”

“Is who gone?” Clare asks. “Wilfred?”

“That wasn’t Wilfred.”

“Yes it was, Louise. That was your husband.”

Louise shakes her head. “Wilf’s not like that. He’s not a bad man.”

“He’s under a lot of stress,” Clare says.

With some effort, Louise hoists herself to sitting. Clare finds the controls and adjusts the bed so Louise can lean back comfortably.

“Have you ever wanted to kill someone?” Louise asks.

Clare is struck by the question. “Have you?”

“I asked you first.”

In his slumber Jason always looked sweet, benign. But still, Clare would lie next to him in bed and imagine it, a knife into the soft spot under his ribs, the gun to his temple, the turmoil his death would bring in exchange for the liberation.

“Sure I have,” Clare says.

“Who?” Louise asks.

“Lots of people.”

Louise frowns and looks out the window. They itemize for Clare, all those she’s wished dead. Jason. Christopher. Grace. Her father. Even her mother by the end, in that purgatory where the cancer had ravaged her but modern medicine kept her alive.

“What about you?” Clare says.

“I always told him,” Louise says. “I always said I’d kill for us.”

“For who?”

“For my family. If it came down to it, I’d kill to keep my family together.”

“Has it ever come down to it?” Clare asks.

“No.” Louise rests against the pillow and closes her eyes. “Are you married?” she asks.

“No,” Clare says.

“Have you ever been married?”

“Yes.”

“Are you divorced?”

“No.”

“Is your husband dead?”

Clare clears her throat. “No. At least I don’t think so.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I haven’t seen him in a while,” Clare says.

“But you’re still married?”

“I left. But I didn’t officially get a divorce.”

“Do you have any children?” Louise says.

“No.”

“I was pregnant seven times.” Louise places her hand on her abdomen. “Seven babies in my belly and only one baby in my arms.”

“That’s terrible,” Clare says.

“The doctor said it was the water. Living downstream from the mine. Sometimes it came out of the tap brown. Wilf said it was just dirt. Harmless. But I’m not so sure. A lot of women had trouble. Women who shouldn’t have been having trouble. There were a lot of only children in town.” Louise pauses. “Did your husband want children?”

“He did. He figured he did. I’m not sure he would have wanted one if it came.”

“But none ever did?”

“I was pregnant once,” Clare says.

“But you don’t have a child.”

“No. I lost the baby in a fall.” Something breaks open in Clare, a flood of sadness, a need to tell the true story. She bites her lip, Louise watching her expectantly. “Not a fall, really,” Clare continues. “My husband pushed me down the cellar stairs.”

“Oh no. That’s awful.”

“It was just one of those things. I was fine but the baby wasn’t.”

“I hope your husband suffered for it.”

“I’m not sure he’s ever suffered. And I wasn’t . . . It was my fault too.”

“But you said he pushed you,” Louise says.

“You know Shayna’s troubles?” Clare says. “The drugs?”

Louise frowns. “Wilfred took care of that.”

“Did he? How?” Clare says.

“That place,” Louise says, waving a hand. Clare waits for her to continue, but Louise’s eyes are heavy again.

“I had those troubles too,” Clare says, unsure of why she is still talking, of whether Louise is even listening. “I had trouble with drugs. When I got pregnant it was easy to stop. Cold turkey. But one night my husband was on a rampage and something just snapped. I wanted to punish him. I thought about taking a razor to my wrists. Instead I took pills. Five, maybe. Then I drank. I’m not even sure what I was trying to accomplish. The worst part is that he thought it was funny. He liked it when I was wasted. I needed him more. Everything’s blurry from there. I know we were in the kitchen and I took a knife from the drawer.”

Louise’s eyes pop open, a bright blue. “You were going to kill him.”

“Maybe. He snatched the knife from my hand and we were wrestling. He had me by the shoulders. It wasn’t so much a push as a letting go. But my senses weren’t fully there, and you’re off balance when you’re pregnant anyway. So I fell. There was nothing to grab hold of on the way down.”

When she blinks, the tears curl down Louise’s cheek.

“You poor thing. You poor darling.”

“I wanted to kill him.”

“He gave you no choice.”

“I tried to cup my belly, which was ridiculous. I remember that. Futile, right? As soon as I landed, I knew. I lay on the cement floor and I knew. It was like I could feel it leaving me. He came down to get me. He tried to get me to go to the hospital but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Because she was my friend. The doctor was my best friend. I couldn’t bear it. She’d know I’d been using. She’d hate me.”

“But he pushed you.”

“Maybe he did. Maybe I fell.”

“So you never went to the hospital?”

“When I started bleeding, he took me. On the way he asked me to recite what happened. ‘You fell,’ he said. ‘I got home from work and found you down there.’ He was coaching me. I remember sitting in the passenger seat, and there was no pain anywhere. I was completely numb. I remember wanting the truck to crash so badly. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt, and I wanted to grab the wheel and steer us into the embankment.”

“Did you ever tell your doctor friend what really happened?”

“No.”

“And where is this man now? This husband of yours?”

“I assume he’s still home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Way east. We had a house on two hundred acres. Five miles from where I grew up.”

“And you left.”

“I left. I lost the baby in September. I left in December. Here we are in July.”

“It’s like your father always told you,” Louise says, pointing a finger at Clare. “That man deserves to die.”

Clare takes Louise’s hand and squeezes it. Did she expect solace, that Louise might hear this story and absolve her of any blame? Clare can never be sure whom Louise sees when she looks at her.

“He
did
deserve to die,” Clare says.

“Maybe he suffered when you left.”

“I doubt it.”

“Does he know where you are?” Louise asks.

“I hope not.”

“He doesn’t,” Louise says. “We’ll make sure of that.”

With a start Louise sits up and tries to raise her hands. The restraints snap. She looks down at them quizzically.

“They’re supposed to keep you from wandering,” Clare says.

“Do I wander?”

“You seem to get lost.”

“I’m not lost. I know exactly where I’m going.”

“Where?”

“Can you remove them?”

“I’m not supposed to. Doctor’s orders.”

“Shackled,” Louise says. “What have they done to me?”

“Where are you trying to go?”

Again Louise yanks her hands upward, pulling the restraints taut.

“They won’t let me see her,” Louise says. “I need to go! She’ll be waiting for me at home.”

“You mean Shayna?”

“That’s what this is about. They don’t want me to see her.”

“Louise. Do you know where she is?”

Now Louise claws at her wrists, her face red with the effort.

“He knows!” she says, pointing to the door.

“You mean Derek?”

Louise whimpers and shakes, sitting up, her eyes unfocused. Clare presses Louise’s arms to hold them to the bed. In the final weeks her mother had been restrained too, waking too often in her hospital bed and thrashing herself loose from the sheets, buckling in her efforts to stand. After a minute Louise’s arms relax, too tired to fight. Her head lolls to one side, her breathing slowed by sleep. Clare’s chest aches. She reaches into her bra and pulls out the homemade pill Charlie gave her, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger, the urge to swallow it making her mouth water. She tucks it back in. All this time Clare’s sights have been on Jared, on Charlie, relying on the imperfections of Louise’s memory to point her here and there. Derek. She needs to think clearly.

Clare flops back into the chair and blinks to stem the tears. She can still picture the gown draped over her pregnant belly as she lay in her own hospital bed, the movement she’d felt for months entirely gone. For hours Clare lay unmoving on that bed, restrained by her own grief, by a self-loathing that felt worse than death. Grace gave her something to help her sleep, waddling in and out of the room, their babies due two weeks apart.