Charlotte’s Story (36 page)

“Let me take him, Charlotte.” Holly held out her hands for him. “I’ll give him back whenever you like.”

“Please. Can’t I use the phone?”

“Just let me take Michael. Let me help calm him down.”

I didn’t want to let him go, but Holly seemed sincere enough, and I thought it might buy some time and sympathy.

“Come to Holly, sweet boy.” She smiled brightly at Michael, who didn’t seem afraid of her. “Let’s look at the toys I’ve got here.” She took him to the large basket of infant toys she had for Seraphina, who wouldn’t be ready for them for months.

I sank back into the comfortable chair, telling myself I wouldn’t fall asleep. I had to persuade them to let us get to Clareston and my father and Nonie. I thought about Eva, but I knew I didn’t dare tell them what I suspected about Rachel.

“You said the policeman pursued you?” David came all the way into the room. “Something about the car being stolen?”

“It has to be a misunderstanding, doesn’t it?” I tried a smile. Of course I knew it was nothing of the sort, but I didn’t want to complicate things. “My car has never been stolen.”

“But why would someone report it, then?”

I didn’t like the way David was looking at me at all—as though I were a teenager prone to lying. I hadn’t lied. Everything I had told them was the truth, but I had seen in their faces that they weren’t sure what to think. I had been an idiot to come to them. They weren’t really my friends. Complete strangers would have been better. I wasn’t thinking straight, and now I couldn’t stop the flood of panic inside me.

Holly had Michael, and I was going to have to try to get him from her without them becoming suspicious. If I had to walk all the way to Clareston, I would get Michael to safety and my father’s house. Why had I come to this town? Press had fooled me in some horrible way. I imagined then that Holly and David were a part of it all, that they had been involved in Press’s duplicity. Olivia had never truly warmed to them. What if it hadn’t been because of her dislike of Jewish people? Perhaps she knew something about the Webbs the way she knew something about Press. But Olivia wasn’t there to protect either Michael or me. I had to be smart.

“Use your head, Lottie.” Nonie was always trying to make me be sensible, and I was, most of the time. God, how I wished she were with us.

Michael yawned, making Holly smile.

“Press hasn’t been himself since Eva died. Can’t you see he blames me? He can’t forgive me? This is just one way he’s trying to hurt me. Surely you can understand how hard it’s been.”

I thought I saw sympathy in David’s eyes, but I wasn’t sure. Bringing up Eva might have been a mistake. I imagined then
that the world was divided into two groups of people: those who believed Eva’s death was my fault and blamed me; and those who believed I was responsible, but pitied me. My hope was that David Webb was in the second group.

“You can’t just take a man’s son away from him, Charlotte. Especially if the boy’s injured.”

“He’s fine. Can’t you see he’s fine? Look at him. He’s just exhausted.”

David glanced at Michael, then back at me.

“I’m calling Jack.” When I started to protest, he said, “It’s either Jack or the hospital, Charlotte. You’re not a child. You know what’s right, here.”

“Then stop treating me like a child.” Getting up, I bent to take Michael from Holly’s arms, but she held fast to him. I tugged, trying to pull him away. He called out for me, sounding frightened.

“You can’t. David, we can’t let her leave here with him.”

“Then just let me use the phone. It’s in the kitchen, yes?” It was the best chance I had to reach my father.

Before I knew what was happening, David took ahold of my shoulders and pulled me backwards so that I fell back against him. Even though he was nearly two inches shorter than I, he had control.

“Listen to yourself, Charlotte. Listen.” He turned me around to face him. “Do you want to hurt your son, too?”

Stunned and sickened into silence, I could only look down at the room’s expensive wall-to-wall carpet. Michael continued to cry for me, but I couldn’t bear to look at him.

Half an hour later, I was resting on the beige velvet sofa, stroking Michael’s hair as he slept in my arms. My badly bruised leg was extended over the cushions. They had argued that calling my father—who was still recovering from the hit-and-run accident—in the middle of the night would unnecessarily alarm him. I knew
they were wrong, but I didn’t have the energy to disagree. But they had promised to tell Jack that he was to come alone, without Press. Yet when Jack arrived, his face creased with concern, Press was close behind.

I would be back at Bliss House, a prisoner, before the sun rose.

Chapter 38

Upstairs, Upstairs

Press returned me to Olivia’s room, knowing I wouldn’t try to leave again without Michael. And he made sure I knew that Michael was no longer in the house. I was in a state of drug-induced sluggishness, but I remember everything that happened after I woke in Olivia’s bed later that day.

There was a glass of water and a cup of tepid tisane on the bedside table, and, squinting to keep the strong afternoon light streaming in the windows out of my eyes, I drank both quickly and fell back on the pillows. I wanted to search for Michael, but couldn’t force myself from the bed because any movement was painful: not only my head, but my neck and injured leg. Feeling for the bell beside the bed that would ring in the kitchen, I found it, but decided not to ring it. Would Terrance or Marlene even bother to come? Barely able to complete any train of thought, I gave up and went back to sleep.

Though I slept fitfully that second time, I woke in the early evening from another dream of Olivia and Eva in the kitchen.
Again Eva stood on the stool, close beside Olivia, but now water dropped from her body in a hundred endless rivulets and pooled on the floor. But this time Olivia gestured me forward so I could also watch over her shoulder. There was a small goose, flopping and honking in the enormous kitchen sink as Olivia forced it down, again and again, to keep it from escaping. Eva watched the goose as well, her face blank and unemotional even though the scene was violent and horrifying in the extreme.

“Don’t look,” I said to Eva, wanting to take her in my arms. But I didn’t try to touch her. Even in my dream, I knew she wouldn’t really be there.

The light around us was the filtered golden amber of an autumn afternoon, and I ached for the days I had walked in the lane beneath the trees with Eva and Michael. As we stood there, the kitchen seemed to grow and stretch so that the floor and the walls got so far away that they disappeared, and we were left—sink and stool, and now-screaming goose—standing in a broad pasture, with Bliss House at a distance behind us, its windows bathed in the amber light. Finally, Eva looked up at me. The velvet ribbon that had been in her hair now hung loosely around her neck, and a fine goose feather was caught in her curls.

“Go upstairs, upstairs, Mommy.”

But how could I?
Upstairs, upstairs
was her name for the third floor. There was no upstairs to go to out here. I looked over my shoulder at the house.

“Come with me. Don’t stay here, baby.”

Eva stared past me toward the house and, in that moment, I saw how she might have looked as an adult: favoring Press only slightly, with delicate cheekbones and a curve to her brow that spoke not just of intelligence, but of cheerfulness too. She was my daughter, and would always be my daughter. Press might not have treasured her the way he should have, might even have stopped thinking of her, but I would never stop.

As the dream faded, I felt my consciousness returning, the pain returning, and I fought it as hard as I could.

Someone was moving in the bedroom. I heard the faint clinking of china in the direction of the bedside table.

“I’m sorry I disturbed you, Miss Charlotte.”

Marlene
did
look sorry, but was otherwise her collected sensible self. With the cooling of the weather, she had switched to a long-sleeved black dress. In the darkness of the room, her pale head and hands seemed almost disembodied. But she was, indeed, whole and human.

I clutched her knobby wrist.

“Don’t lock me in here, Marlene. Please, don’t. I need to see Michael.” My headache had lessened some, but the words still hurt coming out. I could almost see them, dark green and sharp, glinting in the faint moonlight.

I could also see the surprise on her face. “Lock you in? Why would anyone do that?”

Embarrassed by my panic, I let go of her wrist. “Where’s Terrance?”

“Mr. Preston said he thought that you’d prefer that I serve you while you’re ill.” She hesitated. “Shall I bring you some soup? I’ve brought more tisane. It’s chamomile and valerian, for your nerves.”

In that moment I might have wept but for my desire to see Michael. I felt terribly alone.

I whispered. “Marlene, please help me out to the telephone. I have to call someone.”

She seemed not to have heard me as she poured tea into the cup on the bedside table. “I’ll be right back up with some soup and crackers for you, unless you think you could eat something more.”

“The telephone. Please.” I tried to sit upright. My head still hurt, but I felt like I might be able to get out of bed. Before I did anything else, I needed to use the bathroom.

“I’ll tell Mr. Preston you’re awake. I’ll be back in a few minutes with your soup, but you can ring if you need anything else.”

She started out of the room with the tray that held the teapot and water pitcher.

“Why won’t you help me use the telephone? Help me, Marlene.” Now tears threatened, welling in my eyes.

She stopped and turned. Her words were kind but held no apology.

“Mr. Preston had the upstairs, hall, and kitchen telephones removed, Miss Charlotte. There’s only the one in the library now.”

“What about Michael? Have you seen him? Is he with Shelley?”

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask Mr. Preston.”

When she was gone, I sat in the waning light, wanting to leave the room but somehow afraid of what I would find. Olivia’s room was like a kind of island in the house. Michael was out there. Somewhere. But I had to be strong to find him.

Chapter 39

More than a Bastard

I didn’t have to wait long for Press. It was he who brought my soup and crackers, looking like a contrite, caring husband. Such a superb actor. His actions were completely unironic: the way he closed the door, softly, with his elbow, as though he didn’t wish to disturb me, the solicitous
let’s turn on a small light, it’s so dark you might spill your soup
and
how is your head? Better?

My husband. My jailer. Though I had not heard a key in the lock, as Marlene had promised. He knew only too well that I would not leave without Michael.

Jack had given me an injection against the pain, whispering that I shouldn’t make a scene in front of Holly and David, promising that it wouldn’t hurt me. The pain had, indeed, gone for a while. I didn’t know if he had called Press after David had first called him, or if David had called Press directly. But I knew it didn’t matter. I was lost. Michael was lost to me. Press had come into the Webbs’ living room with exclamations of gratitude to David and Holly,
but he had approached me cautiously, as one might a violent child. Or a madwoman.

I didn’t make a scene.

Even when Press took Michael from my arms so Jack could tend to me, I didn’t protest. I knew no one would hear a word I had to say against Press. Really, what was there to say? He hadn’t injured me. There were no witnesses to his threats. He was a man who had lost a daughter, and his wife had gone a little mad with grief.

By the time we got out to Jack’s car, I was shuffling with weariness brought on by the drugs, and I only just remember seeing Shelley’s anxious face in the passenger window of my sedan. The last thought I had before we drove away was that Michael would at least be taken care of on the way home.

I hadn’t had the presence of mind to think that Press might take him from the house right away. I was too tired, too drugged to worry.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t find the tiniest bit of solace being back in Bliss House. It wasn’t a good thing, but at least it was familiar. Better the devil you know.

“I want to see Michael.”

“What kind of greeting is that? Of course you want to see him, but you’re not in any shape to see him yet. You don’t think I would do anything to hurt him, do you? If so, you’re doing me a huge injustice, my love. Give me credit for at least a small amount of humanity.”

I turned away. I hated looking at his smug, not-quite-handsome face. He looked very different to me now. Something about his eyes wasn’t right. I thought again about the jewel-handled knife. Was it still in my clothes? But if I killed him and he
had
done something with Michael, then I might never find Michael again.

“I hope you’re ready for the memorial tonight. There won’t be a lot of people, but you know almost everyone. They’ll understand, of course, if you’re not yourself.” He set the tray on the side of the
bed. The smell of the soup made me salivate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

“I know you must be hungry.”

The soup was too compelling. Turning my head, I saw it was Marlene’s vegetable soup. Beside it, she had put very thin slices of her special rye bread on one of the Minton dragon plates.

Unable to bear looking at him, or at the food, I turned over again to face the short wall with the dresser and jewelry box.

“Go away. You’re a bastard.”

“Something more than a bastard, my love. Much more.”

I felt him move away from the bed.

“You might as well eat. You’re only hurting yourself.”

“Should I just assume you’ve drugged the food?”

When he laughed, he sounded so satisfied. Genuinely amused.

“Assume whatever you like. Would it really matter? You may be a martyr, but no one sets out to like pain, Charlotte. Pain is an acquired taste. If I were you, I wouldn’t work too hard to acquire it. You’re likely to get what you want, and I don’t think it really suits you. You’re not as fragile as you think you are. I think you’ve held up very well, considering that you killed your own daughter. Not many women could survive that.”