The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (133 page)

Bernie regarded him curiously. “I’ve never heard her complain. If anything, she blames herself. She’s concerned about how this is affecting you. Part of her, I think, would like to set you free.”

Marc gave a bitter laugh. “Free? That’s a relative term.” Sure, he could divorce Faith. But what good would it do? Every morning when he woke up she’d still be the first thing on his mind. He could no more abandon her than he could Anna. And therein lay the rub.

“I’m not telling you what to do, Marc.” Bernie sighed. “Frankly, I don’t know what
I’d
do in your shoes.”

He smiled. “You just keep putting one foot in front of the other and hope the shoes don’t wear out.”

“How’ve you been—really?” Bernie leaned forward, his cartoon bear’s eyes fixed so intently on Marc it was unnerving.

Marc shrugged. “I’m taking some time off work.”

“So I gather.” Bernie fished a newspaper clipping from the clutter on his desk—an article from last week’s edition of the
Star,
complete with requisite blurry photo: Marc and Anna ducking into his car. He handed it to Marc. “One of the nurses brought it in.”

Marc glanced at it, and handed it back. “Thanks, I’ve seen it.”

“They spelled your name right at least.”

“Personally, I like the part that reads ‘boyfriend of accused killer.’ ”

“Anything to it?”

“Since when do you believe what’s in the tabloids?”

“Look, Marc, if you’re seeing someone …” Bernie shrugged as if to let him know it wasn’t his place to judge. In his kind face Marc saw acceptance—not just of him per se, but of the accommodations that must often be made in situations like his.

“Does Faith know?” Marc felt a dull throb of apprehension. She could’ve seen it on TV or heard it from the same helpful nurse who’d brought in the clipping.

“If she does, she hasn’t mentioned it.”

“That’s something, at least.” Marc had one foot out the door when he turned and said, “Just for the record, I’m in love with her.”

Bernie didn’t have to ask whom he meant. He only smiled and said, “
Mazel tov.
”

If Marc had been dreading this visit, his reservations melted the moment he laid eyes on Faith. She sat cross-legged on the window seat in the library, reading aloud to one of the other patients under the watchful eye of Rolly, the Jamaican orderly (whose dreadlocks were an endless source of fascination on the ward). Bent over her book, elbows propped on her knees and her braid trailing down one shoulder, she looked all of eighteen—the age she’d been when they met. He paused in the doorway, captivated by the words rolling off her tongue like music.

The bride kiss’d the goblet, the knight took it up,

He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

Lochinvar.
A tale of star-crossed love. He smiled at the irony, his gaze shifting to the woman on the floor at Faith’s feet. She had to be twice Faith’s age and at least double her weight, but she sat like a docile child, eyes half closed and mouth parted.

“Faith,” he called softly.

She looked up. “Marc.” As quickly as her face had lit up, it clouded over. “I wasn’t expecting you until after lunch,” she said with a tentativeness that was heartbreaking.

The library was the coziest of the common rooms at Thousand Oaks, with its carpet and comfortable chairs, its rows of free-standing shelves filled with books on every subject, yet as he crossed it he felt a chill travel through him.

He’d nearly reached her when a hand closed over his ankle. He looked down to find a sly moon face grinning up at him.

“Would you like Faith to finish reading to you?” he asked, extracting his ankle from the woman’s grip.

She nodded vigorously, her lank gray hair flopping about the doughy mounds of her shoulders. Looking up at Faith, she demanded, in a childlike voice, “Go back to the beginning.”

Faith bent forward to ruffle her hair with an affectionate laugh, and for a fleeting instant she was his wife again: patron saint of the helpless. “Not now, Iris. I’ll read to you some more after group, I promise. Right now, I need to be alone with Marc.” She seldom referred to him anymore as her husband and although it hurt, he preferred to think it was out of sensitivity for those with no husbands of their own or visitors of any kind, for that matter.

Iris heaved herself to her feet, muttering to herself as she shuffled from the room, tugging at her shapeless smock. Faith and Rolly exchanged a look—like parents of a difficult child—that pierced Marc’s heart like a tiny poisoned dart. Then Rolly ambled over to clap a hand on his shoulder, saying in a low voice, “I’ll be outside in the hall. You need me, just give a shout.” With his Jamaican accent it came out “shot.”

Not until they were alone did Faith gracefully unfold from the window seat, offering her cheek to be kissed. She was wearing a gray Nike tracksuit that made it look as though she’d been out jogging, an illusion furthered by the light sheen of perspiration polishing her cheeks and forehead. Tiny wisps of hair had sprung loose from her flaxen braid; in the sunlight they sparkled like spun gold.

“Nice save,” he said.

Faith smiled. “Iris can get possessive at times.”

They settled on the sofa facing the shelves marked R-T, Marc at one end and Faith at the other, her bare feet tucked under her. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes. Had they been as pronounced before? She looked thinner, too. Was she eating enough?

“Your parents send their love,” he told her. “They’ve been trying to reach you all week.” He was careful not to make it sound like an accusation. Besides, they were used to her mood swings. Sometimes whole weeks would go by when she’d refuse to take any calls.

“I’ve been busy,” she said with a shrug,

“They wanted you to be the first to know.” He hesitated, then said, “Cindy’s pregnant.”

“No kidding? That’s great!” She sounded genuinely delighted. Even so, he eyed her closely.

“The baby’s due in November.”

“Wow. I’ll finally be an aunt.”

He waited for the cracks to appear, but when none did, he relaxed a little. “They’re pretty excited. Your mother’s already maxed out her Visa buying baby things.”

“I’ll bet.” She laughed knowingly.

There. That shadow in her eyes just then—like something flitting below the calm, clear surface of a lake. He drew in a breath, bracing himself for the plunge. “They weren’t sure how you’d take it.”

The dark thing rose to the surface, slowly spreading over her face. Marc waited, his heart thudding. “Does it always have to come back to
that?
God, I’m so sick of it all!” She pulled her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

“Would it have been better if I hadn’t told you?”

“Does it matter what
I
want?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a little colored pill that will fix it.” She gave a hollow laugh. In her temples, tiny blue veins stood out like cracks in an eggshell.

Marc’s mind reeled back to that awful day. He’d hurried home from work, concerned because she’d sounded so strange over the phone. Something to do with the hormones she was taking, he’d thought. They’d been trying for years to have a baby, and she’d taken some time off work to give it one last shot. That morning she’d been feeling nauseated and, though cautiously hopeful, he’d begun to suspect it was something other than an early sign of pregnancy. More and more often he’d call home in the middle of the day to find her still in bed, depressed and lethargic, classic signs of mental illness. Yet he’d ignored them—he, of all people, who should’ve known. But the fear that had been growing in the back of his mind didn’t burst into full bloom until he’d walked in that day to find Faith unconscious on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood.

His first thought was that she’d miscarried—until he saw the bloody ice pick in her hand. As he dropped to his knees, feeling for a pulse, he’d felt as though he were plummeting down through the floor.

In the ambulance she’d grabbed his shirt, pulling him down to whisper hoarsely in his ear, “Is it
out?
” Her face was the color of the sheet pulled up under her chin.

“The baby?” His horror ratcheted up another notch at the thought that she might have aborted their child.

She shook her head weakly. “
It.
”

Days later the story came out: the voices clamoring in her head that sometimes communicated over the radio, whispering of the devil growing in her womb that would eventually kill her if she didn’t get rid of it first. She could
feel
it she said, never mind the X rays and tests that showed nothing was wrong. So she’d taken matters into her own hands. Listening to her calmly recount the events leading up to the terrible scene he’d witnessed, Marc had wept with both horror and a profound sense of helplessness. It was like watching her drown while he stood on shore, unable to jump in to save her.

Yet incredible as it now seemed, he’d been optimistic. And for a time, with therapy and meds, she
had
seemed to improve. But it was always one step forward, two steps back, with the ensuing years bringing a succession of hospitalizations. Twice she’d attempted suicide. Once, when he’d caught her holding a knife to her wrist, she’d gone after him instead. That was the final straw: The following day she’d checked into Thousand Oaks. She’d been there ever since—eighteen months—not counting brief supervised forays into the outside world.

But hadn’t he been locked away, too, from the kind of love he’d once taken for granted? Until Anna. The question was, where did he go from here?

“Are you angry because I couldn’t come last week?” he asked gently.

“
Should
I be?” she shot back.

“You tell me.”

She sighed, as if the answer should have been obvious. “What I
want
is for it not to be an obligation. If you’re sick of me, just say so. I won’t hold it against you. I’m sick of me, too.”

He reached for her hand. “I don’t want to stop seeing you.”

“Then where have you been?”

“I told you—I took some time off work. I’ve been staying at a little place up the coast.”

Faith cocked her head, eyeing him intently, and for a tense moment he was certain she knew. “Well, that explains it,” she said.

He felt himself go cold. “What?”

“Why you’re so tanned.”

He relaxed. Whatever she suspected, she wouldn’t probe; she had to know she’d only end up being hurt worse. “I’m going for the George Hamilton look.”

“I don’t see that it’s hurt him any with the ladies.” That was as close as she’d get to the truth.

Marc was quick to change the subject. “How’s the painting going?” Bernie Fine had suggested she take up art as a form of therapy, and Faith seemed to enjoy it.

“Okay.”

“Anything you want to show me?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, when you’re ready—”

“Don’t patronize me.” She eyed him coldly.

“I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing.”

“Well, you are. You know as well as I do it’s only to keep me from going off the deep end. Like the meds, only it comes in more colors.”

“Well, at least you haven’t cut off your ear.” He’d found that it helped sometimes to joke; tiptoeing only made it worse. But this time she didn’t laugh.

“Not funny,” she said.

“You’re still angry with me, I see.”

“Damn you.” She glared at him, her eyes filling with tears.

“Faith—” He put out a conciliatory hand, but she shrank from it.

“I
hate
it.”

“I know.” At least she hadn’t said she hated
him.

“No, you
don’t
know,” she cried. “Most of the time I can bear it. But when I see you, I’m reminded all over again of everything I’m missing.
That’s
what’s so hard.” Her voice broke. “It’s not your fault. And I’m not saying I’m ready to go home. The truth is, I … I feel safe here.”

As always, he felt tugged in opposite directions: wanting his wife back and wishing he could walk away for good. And now there was Anna.

“Would you rather I not visit for a while?” he asked gently.

Faith stared at him so long and so hard he could feel it in his chest: a dull ache. He remembered what Sundays used to be like: lounging half the morning in bed, waffles drenched in maple syrup, long walks hand in hand. Would he ever know those things again, or was it purely wishful thinking?

Her face crumpled and she began to weep.

He gathered her in his arms. “Shh … it’s okay.”

She wept softly into his shirt. “I d-don’t want you to s-stop coming.”

“In that case, you’re stuck with me.” At times like these he almost wished he still drank—anything to numb the ache.

She burrowed into him like a small child. He thought once more of her sister. When the time came, Cindy and her husband planned to fly down with the baby. Marc had discussed it in depth with Cindy, as he did everything involving Faith—like a military maneuver. Cindy worried what it would do to her sister, but she was more worried about the baby.

“What if she wants to hold it?” she’d asked, her voice low and ashamed. He’d understood how she felt: What kind of person would deny her sister such a thing?

Just as Marc’s heart had broken for his sister-in-law, it was now breaking for his wife. He stroked her hair, murmuring reassurances. In a little while he was going off in search of a woman named Krystal about whom he knew nothing except the address in Encino that his friend Keith had given him. But all he could think of right now was that maybe the real insanity in this world was love itself—a dumb beast that would sooner beat its head against a brick wall than leap over it.

Las Casitas was like a dozen other apartment buildings he’d passed along the way: several stories of drab cinderblock wrapped around a central patio and pool, its rows of doors accessed by outdoor ramps. As he climbed the metal stairs the smell of chlorine rose about him like vapors from a chemical dump, along with the sounds of children splashing in the pool.