The Christmas Secret (6 page)

I had hoped I could find a job that would keep me settled longer, but this was better than nothing. “I am. Is there anyway I could start tomorrow or even today?”

She laughed and handed me a fresh scone. “Try that. We put lemon and cranberries in them during the holidays. It's so good you'll want to smack your mama. I have no idea what that means but my mother always said it so there you go.” She watched as I took a bite. It was delicious. She slapped the counter in front of her. “I knew you'd love it.” She put her hand on my shoulder and directed me out of the kitchen. “You can start on Tuesday. And we don't do uniforms around here. I just ask that you wear comfortable shoes, keep your breasts covered, and leave room in your pants for air to move through them.” I smiled. “I'll provide the apron.”

“I really could start today,” I said, wondering what I could do to make up for the money I wouldn't be making.

“These things always work themselves out,” she said,
patting my back. “Your kids will be back in school on Monday, right?” I nodded. “Enjoy them. We'll fill out paperwork when you start. Hold on.” She stepped back into the kitchen and moments later appeared holding a white paper sack. “Take this home. It was takeout but nobody came to pick it up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Better you take it than us throwing it away.”

The smell of the food in the bag reminded me that I hadn't eaten breakfast, and I was anxious to get home. I made my way back through the restaurant and stepped outside into a dazzle of sun and sky. Somehow, the town felt warmer and brighter and I thought maybe it would be a good day after all, but knew it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. I knew it would; it always did.

 

Patricia Addison picked up the phone and pressed it to her ear. “This is Patricia,” she said, scanning a report on her desk.

“I'd like to report a case of child neglect,” a man said.

Patricia scribbled notes onto the sheet as the man rambled. She had worked for the Department of Family Services for twenty-one years but for the last four years she'd only worked two days a week so she could stay home with her children. In her experience she often felt she knew when
someone was manufacturing a story. She looked over at Roy Braeden who'd been at the department longer than she had but he was on the phone.

“We'll look into it,” she said, hanging up. She typed the information into her computer, sighing. She had a feeling she was getting caught up in divorce antics. She sighed louder and Roy waved his arm in the air to shush her, pressing the receiver tighter to his ear.

“Are you trying to blow up a hot air balloon over there?” Roy asked, hanging up the phone. “What's the problem?”

“Nothing. I just have a feeling I'm being sent to this woman's house to scare her. Compliments of her ex.”

Roy popped a stick of gum in his mouth and leaned toward her. “That's what that social worker in Florida thought, too. Remember hearing that on the news? He never called on those kids and look what happened.”

“Since when haven't I checked out a case?” Patricia said.

“You only work two days a week now. I'm thinking you might be slipping.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, turning her back on him.

“Two days a week but it feels like eight,” Roy said, opening a file on his desk.

Patricia laughed and labeled a file for this new case. She needed to gather as much information as she could before she visited the home of Angela Christine Eisley.

 

.    .    .

 

Marshall stood at the window and watched as people down the street loaded the number four bus at the station. He hated hospitals: the sterile smell, the clickety-clack of the janitor's mop bucket pulled across the floor, the hushed chatter in not so faraway corners, hearts breaking and voices rising as they come to terms with what's happening to their spouse or child or parent in the room beyond the closed door. Marshall pressed closer to the window when he thought he saw the young woman who had been crying on the sidewalk earlier that morning. She was smiling now, waiting in line for the bus.
Another day
, Marshall thought.
Tears, dreaming, weeping, laughing, emergency room visits, the time of day. Nothing stays the same for long
.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number, leaning against the window. “Linda? Judy's in the hospital.” The doctor stepped into the waiting room and Marshall whispered into the phone, “I'll need to call you right back.”

Judy's husband, Dave, stood up when he saw the doctor.

“Mr. Luitweiler?” the doctor asked. The lines between Dave's eyes deepened and his mouth tightened at the sound of his name. “Your wife has had a heart attack,” the doctor said. Dave nodded. “We have her stabilized now and are going to move her upstairs to the cardiac cath lab for evaluation.”

Dave twisted his ball cap between his hands. “Is she going to be okay?”

“We need to run tests to determine the damage to her heart and arteries and test blood flow. Thankfully, whoever discovered your wife started CPR right away and paramedics began medication therapy as soon as they got her into the ambulance. We're hoping that decreased the amount of heart damage. We'll keep her at least overnight, maybe longer depending on what we find. Once we get her settled you can come be with her.”

He left them alone and Dave pushed his thumb and middle finger into his eyes, squeezing them. “Forty years,” he said shoving the cap back onto his head. He snapped his fingers. “In the last few minutes they went like that.”

“I know,” Marshall said, clapping him on the shoulder.

 

I climbed onto the bus and sat next to the window. I called home to let Mira know that I wouldn't need her for the rest of the day. When I hung up, the phone vibrated and I saw that Brad had left a voice mail. The other shoe was about to drop.

 

 

 

 

Judy looked ragged. Her hair sprouted in short, gray tufts on top of her head and she smoothed it down, working her hands through it like pizza dough. Marshall leaned against the windowsill and watched her eat some applesauce. “Linda, Alice, Glenn, your book club, and everyone at work want you to know that they are thinking of you,” he said.

“Oh, good grief,” she said. “What'd you do? Send up flares in the night?”

“When are you getting out of here?” he asked.

She turned her face toward the open door and yelled, “Not soon enough!”

“She keeps thinking that if she throws enough hints that the doctors will release her sooner,” Dave said.

Judy flung the spoon down on the tray. “I want a cream cheese bear claw from Betty's,” she said.

“You're not getting a bear claw,” Dave said. “So stop asking for one. Bear claws are one of the reasons you're in
here.” Marshall laughed and leaned against the windowsill. “They're talking stents,” Dave said. “Two or three to open blood flow.”

“My blood flows,” Judy said.

“Not to your heart it doesn't,” Dave said.

“Right before Christmas,” Judy said, dipping her spoon into the cup of applesauce and turning it over. “This is a terrible time for a stent.” She spit the word off her tongue and turned over another spoonful of applesauce.

“What have you been doing to pass the time?” Marshall asked.

“I've been thinking of everything I have to do,” she said. “And everything I've done. Of people I love and the people I don't. I keep thinking of things that need to be fixed at home and of things that just need to be left alone.”

Marshall whistled through his teeth. “Wow. This downtime has made you so reflective.”

She pushed the tray to the side. “No, it hasn't. It's so boring I'm about to lose my mind!” she said, screaming toward the door again. Marshall laughed and stepped away from the bed. “Marsh!” He turned back to her. “I've been thinking about the gal who helped me.” He nodded. “If she hadn't been home. I mean . . . if she hadn't been leaving her house . . . can you find her?”

“I can try,” he said.

Dave sat on the side of Judy's bed. “Word got to me that
the woman left Judy's car at Patterson's. I haven't had time to get it.”

“She's a waitress,” Judy said. “Her name's Christy, I think.”

“I'm on it like warm icing on a gooey cream cheese bear claw,” Marshall said, leaving.

“Real nice to do to a sick person,” she yelled after him.

 

The knock came at four thirty Monday afternoon. Zach ran to the door and swung it open before I could warn him
again
about looking to see who it was first. “Hi,” he said. I ran around the corner from the kitchen and saw a petite woman with wavy brown hair falling to her shoulders standing on the stairs with some sort of file in her hand. I hated it when salespeople came to the door; I never knew how to get rid of them. I was wearing a tank T-shirt pajama top and ran to the hall closet, grabbing a jacket to wear. I zipped it up and stepped next to Zach.

“Angela Christine Eisley?” the woman said. My heart stopped. She wasn't a salesperson. Only people in official positions called me by my full name.

“Yes,” I said.

She handed me a business card. “My name's Patricia Addison. I'm with the Department of Family Services.”

My heart jumped to my throat and I grabbed Zach's arm. “Go back into your room.”

“But I'm hungry,” he said.

I bent down and whispered in his ear. “Take Haley back into your room right now.” He yanked away from me and grabbed his sister's arm, pulling her through the hallway. We weren't off to a good start. I was ordering my hungry children to go to Zach's room. What could she possibly think of me?

The woman looked sympathetic. “I'm sure you know that your ex-husband has called us.” Something fluttered high in my chest and I felt nauseous. I couldn't respond. “Mrs. Eisley, I'm only here to talk with you. Can I come in?” I moved aside and was embarrassed by my home. Toys were scattered throughout the living room and papers and bills covered the kitchen table. I gestured toward a chair and she sat down, moving Genevieve out of the way. I took the stuffed dog from her and sat on the edge of the sofa. No one from social services had ever been inside my home. My hands felt numb and I clasped them together.

“You may know some of the allegations your ex-husband is making against you but you may not. It's my job to evaluate those claims. Do you know what he is alleging?” My eyes burned and I shook my head. “He is claiming that you lost your job and a teenager is supervising your children.” Something throbbed in my head. How did Brad know I was fired? She read through her notes. “The children are not eating and have been seen outside without socks or shoes.”
Tears filled my eyes and I covered my face with Genevieve. Her voice was low. “Your ex-husband wants primary custody of the children.” Tears spilled over my cheeks and I shook my head back and forth. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Mrs. Addison reached into her purse and pulled out a small packet of tissues, handing it to me. I took one out and pressed it hard under my eye. She leaned on her knees looking at me. “Just because I'm here doesn't mean that I necessarily believe your husband.” I looked up at her and she smiled.

“I did lose my job,” I said, finding the words. “But I found another one. I start tomorrow.”

“Where will you be working?” she asked, writing something in her notes.

“Betty's Bakery and Restaurant,” I said, blowing my nose.

She smiled. “I eat there quite a bit. Do you know your hours yet?”

I felt so stupid. I hadn't even asked Betty what shift I'd be working. “I don't. I go over paperwork on my first day.” She nodded and continued to write. “Normally, my kids are in school. I only had a sitter because it was Thanksgiving break. I hate leaving my kids with teenagers but I didn't have a choice.”

“Could their father have watched them during that time?” she asked.

I felt trapped. “He's supposed to see them every other weekend.”

“Could he have watched them in place of the teenager?”

“I . . .” My voice was trembling. “He hasn't paid me any child support in six months.”

Her pen moved quickly over the paper. “Have you taken him to court over child support?”

I squeezed Genevieve in my hands. “Many times. He'll pay it for a while and then stop for months but all the while he's calling here and threatening me with one thing or another.” I choked on the words and stopped. “I can't afford to keep taking him into court and he knows that. It's just a game. Why should he see them? He doesn't care about them.” I had more to say but I couldn't get the words beyond my throat.

“And the children being seen outside without socks or shoes?”