Thorns of Truth (44 page)

How could she refuse to help him now?

“I promise,” she said.

Drew took a deep breath, as if to fortify himself. “A couple of months ago. Iris really wigged out. I mean, big-time. I probably should have told someone then, but she made me promise not to. She swore she’d talk it over with her shrink, do whatever
he
thought best.”

“How bad was it?”

Drew waved a hand in the direction of the bathroom … and that’s when Mandy noticed that the door hung slightly askew on its hinges, and the splintered jamb was crudely patched with wood putty. Drew’s hollow voice was like an echo rising from some deep chasm. “I kept begging her to open up … or
say
something, at least. If I hadn’t busted the door in …”

His expression grew taut, and once again it was their father’s face she was seeing—Daddy’s look of confident decisiveness in an emergency. Except Drew didn’t look heroic; he looked young, too young to have to deal with such terrible things. In a low voice hoarse with exhaustion, he confided, “She had the razor out. It was on the floor next to her. She would have cut herself if I hadn’t gotten to her when I did.” He started to cry—great gasping sobs that left Mandy torn between a fierce urge to wrap her arms around him, and a desire to tiptoe away so as not to intrude on something so excruciatingly private.

Suicide. Christ. Mandy couldn’t imagine feeling that hopeless. Even with her drinking, as low as she’d gotten, not once had she ever considered putting a gun to her head. There was
always
another way out—even if at times the escape hatch seemed impossibly narrow.

Mandy, more disturbed than she dared let on, shook her head. “No wonder she looked so awful at the funeral—like she was sick or something.” She seized her brother’s hands, which felt clammy and inert. “Drew, she
is
sick. None of this is your fault. You’ve
got
to believe that.”

Drew straightened, his mouth trembling. “It doesn’t matter how
I
feel. Don’t you see? She could die. Whatever’s wrong, she could fucking
die
while we’re all sitting around trying to figure it out. Listen, I’m no doctor, not yet, but I know enough to be scared.”

“Why haven’t you told her parents, then?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, and took a fierce swipe at his nose with knuckles clenched hard enough to hit someone. “I guess I wanted to believe it as much as they did—the whole myth about me making a difference. Sir Galahad to the rescue.” He gave a grunt of grim laughter. “The thing is, I
do
love her. None of this changes anything.” The look on her brother’s face brought tears to her own eyes. “Mandy, I need your help. Please. Help me find her.”

Mandy drew in a deep breath. She felt as if she were drowning—every ounce of energy drained by the immense effort it took just to keep her head above water—and now she’d been asked to save someone else. It was too much.

Yet, looking into her brother’s ravaged eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to say no, either. What if something terrible happened because she turned away? She’d never forgive herself. And didn’t she have enough shame to live with as it was?

Against every instinct, every selfish bone in her body crying out for her to help herself before she extended a hand to her brother, Mandy said, “I’ll try.”

Dear God, get ALL of us through this in one piece.

Minutes later, Mandy was dashing downstairs on her way to the corner deli. Drew confessed he hadn’t eaten since yesterday—and after a quick check of his nearly empty refrigerator, she didn’t doubt it. She’d insisted they both grab something before heading off on what might be a wild-goose chase.

But at the hole-in-the-wall Pakistani deli, when she opened the refrigerator case, it wasn’t the cartons of milk and orange juice that immediately caught her eye. What jumped out was the rack of wine coolers, rows of tall bottles misted with condensation. She thought of how one of those bottles would feel in her hand, its wonderfully familiar heft, its sweet chill wetting her palm. Even the brand, Aker’s Orchard—it sounded so quaint and harmless. How could it hurt, just one? They weren’t much stronger than soda; hardly enough alcohol to give you a buzz.

Mandy began to tremble. She swallowed, hearing a clicking sound at the back of her parched throat. She couldn’t remember ever wanting anything so badly.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to will away the almost palpable image of herself lifting one of those bottles to her mouth, head tilted back, lips parted. But it was no good. She couldn’t shake it. And now the craving was even
worse.

She felt herself start to reach into the case. Her hand, as if magnetized, drawn inevitably toward its pole.

Just one. I promise.…

But who was she kidding? It wouldn’t stop at one. It never did.

With her last shred of willpower, Mandy jerked her arm back and, in that instant, experienced an almost physical sensation of something tearing—as if the narrow gap separating her from what she craved were a hank of hair being ripped from her scalp. Leaning up against the cool glass of the case, she mopped her sweating forehead with her sleeve, feeling not the least bit virtuous, merely deprived.

Grabbing one of the plastic baskets stacked just inside the door, she began throwing things into it. Bread. Cheese. Sliced turkey. A jar each of mustard and mayonnaise. It wasn’t until she’d plunked the basket down on the counter that she remembered the milk. Should she go back? Risk the temptation?

As if in a trance, Mandy walked back over to the refrigerator case. The gleaming row of bottles, with their bright labels like children’s crayon drawings, seemed to wink at her. She almost laughed out loud at her fears. How could anything so cheery—so
benign,
really—be cause for concern?

Before her conscience could get the better of her, Mandy reached for a bottle … and grabbed two instead. One for her health … and, oh hell, one for good measure.

At the register, as the bored-looking owner was ringing up her purchase, she rummaged in her shoulder bag for her wallet and pulled it out. Something fluttered to the floor. She bent to pick it up—a dog-eared business card. Frowning, she examined it.
Eric Sandstrom, WQNA Talk Radio.
His home number was scribbled on the back.

It all descended on her like a wheelbarrow tipping over in her mind—the night she’d had dinner at Rose’s, Eric cornering her in the kitchen. This man she hardly knew—a stranger, really—looking at her as if he understood her in a way even her own family never could.
Call me anytime,
he’d said. They’d go to an AA meeting together.

The guy had some nerve, Mandy thought. Just because he’d escorted her home one night, did that give him the right to lecture her?

She felt a slippery brush against her calf that caused her to jump, her heart lurching into her throat. But it was only the store cat, a fat yellow tabby that scooted away as if she’d stepped on its tail. The Sikh store owner, too, was giving her a strange look. Mandy froze, staring at the plastic bag of groceries on the counter, while her mind screeched,
What are
y
ou waiting for? Just pay for the stuff, and get out of here.
But when she glanced toward the door, in anticipation of a fast getaway, she saw something that she hadn’t noticed on her way in: a pay phone on the dingy wall above a rack of newspapers.

Call Eric now. This instant.
A voice she didn’t recognize, it had been so long since she’d heard it. Daddy’s voice.

She felt a stinging rush behind her eyes.

At the same time, she balked. How silly, she told herself. What was the big deal? Anyway, she couldn’t just walk off and leave these groceries. This guy was already eyeing her as if she were some kind of nut. And Drew was sure to start wondering what was keeping her.

And let’s not forget the frosty wine coolers with your name on them.

Mandy fumbled with the clasp on her wallet. If she had no quarters, that would be a sign, wouldn’t it? A sign that she wasn’t meant to call Eric. But if, on the other hand …

She unzipped the change compartment … where a single quarter stared boldly up at her from a pile of dimes, nickels, pennies. With trembling fingers, she dug it out.

Damn.

Mandy formed a fist, squeezing so hard she could feel the coin digging into her palm like a dull blade. She was only dimly aware of the rise and fall of nasal singing from a radio tuned to some Indian station. And the store owner waiting impatiently with the register open.

Ignoring him, she let out a sigh of defeat that, oddly enough, seemed to lift her, making it almost easy to put one foot in front of the other as she walked over to the pay phone and dropped the quarter into its slot.

Chapter 16

“D
ID YOU REMEMBER
to pack the liner for your raincoat? It’ll be cold in Cincinnati.” Rachel watched her husband carry his luggage over to the door and set it down—the old green duffel that must have at least a hundred thousand miles on it, and the scuffed leather photographer’s case he used as a carry-on.

“I’ll be fine. I packed an extra sweater.” Brian glanced at his watch—it was just past five, rush hour—then, just as cursorily, at her.

The prospect of his leaving worried her in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on. But it was only a business trip, she told herself. Two nights and a day to shmooze with a major wholesaler. Just like a hundred other publicity jaunts. Except for one thing: his cool, businesslike attitude toward
her,
as if she were just another item on his itinerary.

And why were they talking about the weather in Cincinnati, for God’s sake, when the temperature in this very room felt close to freezing? Sure, couples got angry, yelled, fought—but this was worse.
We’re like strangers,
she thought. Like seat-mates on an airplane, acknowledging one another with polite nods but secretly terrified they might be forced into a conversation. Careful, oh so careful, even while dozing, to keep their elbows from brushing, their faces turned away.

If Brian should leave her for good, was this how it would be? No fuss, no muss. God, how awful. Rachel felt her low-grade anxiety start to rise, like mercury in a thermometer, and remembered a breezy term Mandy used to describe a particularly easy case: “low-impact divorce.” At the time, Rachel had smiled, amused. Now she wondered if there really was such a thing. What might look like two adults handling a situation in a mature way—wasn’t that just the product of emotions piled so high they had to tiptoe around, and talk in whispers, to keep it all from tumbling down?

“Did you leave a copy of your itinerary for me?” she asked.

“On your desk, in the den.” Distractedly, he waved a hand in that direction while riffling through the packet containing his airline tickets and hotel vouchers. In his khakis and navy windbreaker, with his glasses slipping down his nose, he made her mink of an archeologist heading off to a dig in some remote part of the world.

“I won’t call unless it’s an emergency,” Rachel told him. “I know how busy you’ll be.”

Brian looked up sharply. This wasn’t like her, they both knew. In the old days, she’d have expected him to phone as soon as he’d checked into his hotel. And then, later, she’d have called to wish him good night. On a few memorable occasions, for no particular reason, they’d talked for several hours.

Now she waited, hoping against hope, for Brian to break through the ice. To laugh, as if she’d only been joking, and say something cute like.
Hey, baby, you up for some phone sex later on?
Oh, he’d been wonderfully understanding about her mother. Tender and solicitous in the days following the funeral, taking on most of the household chores while Rachel had wandered about in a daze. Nikos, in accordance with Mama’s wishes, had quietly informed Sylvie’s family about Rose, so, along with everything else, there had been aunts, uncles, cousins, asking nosy questions Rachel wasn’t in any shape to deal with. Brian had headed them off at the pass, explaining just enough to satisfy them, while at the same time keeping them at bay.

But as for any true intimacy between husband and wife, there had been only the briefest of hugs, the most generic of kisses. That’s what hurt the most—Rachel felt her husband slipping away, but sensed she was powerless to stop it. Each day, the wall of ice separating them grew thicker.

It wasn’t even about Rose. Not really. Whatever had happened between Brian and Rose, whatever he’d
wished
would happen. Rose was just the point of disembarkation after the long and tumultuous voyage of these past few years. But whatever storms Rachel and Brian had faced, none had been worse than this … this …

Becalmed,
she thought.
That’s what we are
—
becalmed.
The thing that sailors in the old days dreaded even more than high seas. Food and water in limited supply, and no land in sight.

“You’ll be plenty busy yourself, I’m sure.” Brian was trying to sound lighthearted, but it came out sounding like an accusation. More gently, he added, “I’ll phone you when I get there, just to make sure you’re okay.”

When had the tables turned? Once, it had been Rachel worrying. Now it was Brian voicing an awareness of the potential danger lurking around every corner. Only he wasn’t talking about plane crashes or car wrecks. He, too, must have sensed it—the chasm opening at their feet.

“I’m heading over to the clinic to catch up on a few things. I may be late getting home,” she told him, feeling the sudden need to withdraw, protect herself. “I’m so behind. You know, with everything that’s happened …” She let the sentence trail off.

“I’m sure.” Brian’s tone was clipped, impatient.

There was a grim set to his jaw, a remoteness in his eyes, that hadn’t been evident even a few months ago. This evening, watching him pack—socks, shirts, ties, his favorite pen for signing autographs—she’d been struck by his efficiency. His … self-containment. As if he’d have been just as comfortable living elsewhere; as if it made no difference how long he’d be away. A day, a week, a month—maybe it was all the same to a man with nothing much to come home to.