Miracle in the Mist (20 page)

Alvin's breathing evened out. He sighed contentedly. Her warmth and her nearness erased the last remnants of his pain over Alice's death and replaced them with a deep regret for the loss and a peace that he'd forgotten was possible, but which now permeated his heart and soul.

"I wish everyone could be as happy as I am right now," Alvin said, kissing the top of her head.

"You're thinking of Frank," Ellie said, then turned her head to kiss his chest.

He smiled. She could always read his thoughts. He had to wonder how much of that was due to the village and its mystical powers, and how much was due to the invisible thread that had seemed to bind their hearts from the very beginning.

"Yes, I am."

Ellie propped herself on one elbow and stared down at him. "You said when you got here that you'd talked to him."

"Yes, I did."

"What did he say?"

Alvin sighed. "He told me exactly what happened that night." As briefly as possible, he related what Frank had told him.

"But I don't see that it's his fault," Ellie said, drawing the same conclusion Alvin had.

"I know that, and you know that. How do I convince Frank? He's a doctor, a scientist if you will. He's used to seeing everything in black-and-white proof before he believes. I don't have that proof, Ellie." A terrible thought occurred to him. He turned his face to hers. "Have we lost him?"

"Lost him? No. Carrie is going to need Frank when the final horrors of her lost memory emerge. If we lose Frank, we'll also lose Carrie, and that can't happen."

Alvin sat up. "That was the whole reason behind me making peace with my guilt, wasn't it?"

Ellie nodded. "If you didn't make peace with your problems, then you couldn't help Frank, and if you didn't help him, he couldn't help Carrie."

"Why didn't you just tell me that?"

Ellie smiled and kissed him. "Because
you
had to forgive yourself. No one else could do that for you. The same goes for Frank. He has to come to see that the accident was destiny."

Alvin sighed. "I don't think mentioning
destiny
to him will help. I tried telling him it was time for his wife to die, and he about bit my head off."

She thought for moment and then smiled. "You usually do your best thinking in the woods beyond the village. Why not go there tomorrow and sort it out?"

Alvin laughed. "I tried that and woke up in my cabin. I don't think Emanuel wants me to leave."

Ellie pulled him down to within a breath of her lips. "I think if you want to leave the village tomorrow, you won't be stopped." Then she tightened her hold on his neck. "But right now, I have other duties for you to see to."

Chapter 17

Emanuel stared intently out the window of Clara's cottage at the sad young woman sitting on a rock next to the stream. "Carrie is still fighting her memories. She's been here for weeks, and I thought she'd have been farther along by now, perhaps even ready to leave the village."

Clara moved to stand beside him. "I don't think she's fighting them. Unfortunately, she seems content to let them come as they will." She shook her head. "I've done all I can do. I'm afraid it's up to her now to
want
the memories to return."

The village Elder turned to Clara, his brow furrowed in concern. "I was not accusing you of not doing your job, my dear. I hope you know that."

"I do." She smiled up at his serene face, and then smoothed his sleeve. "Now, come have your coffee."

After patting her shoulder and returning her smile, Emanuel moved past her and sat at the table. His habitual coffee mug waited for him. Long, narrow fingers of steam rose from the cup, carrying with them the rich aroma of the freshly ground beans Clara used to brew her coffee. He inhaled deeply, sipped at the brew, and then replaced the cup on the table.

Stroking his fingers the length of his long beard, he stared off into space. His lips moved as though he were talking to some unseen confidant. His thick, snowy eyebrows drew together in thought, cutting through his wide brow with a slash of white.

Clara was well acquainted with this procedure by now, and knew that talking to him or trying to help him would be as effective as talking to her loom. Therefore, she sat across from him, folded her hands on the rough tabletop, and waited. He'd process his thoughts, some aloud, some to himself, and eventually arrive at a solution. She had only to endure the process.

When he finally turned back to Clara, his gray eyes were alive with a sparkle that Clara had come to realize meant he'd found an answer to a perplexing problem. "Perhaps we're pacing the return of her memories too slowly. Bringing them closer together might help her to remember more, to prompt others and decipher them more quickly."

"Do you think it's wise to bombard her with too many memories? That could be dangerous, not to mention confusing. She needs time to think about each of the memories, to fully understand what they're trying to tell her before another is thrust upon her. Those wicked headaches that come with each memory don't do much to encourage her to remember more, either."

"Those are essential, I'm afraid." He considered what Clara had said for a moment, and then favored her with a beaming smile that made her heart beat just a bit faster. "Yet, as always, my dear, your wisdom is my guiding light. What would I do without you?"

Clara smiled. Emanuel didn't need her to make any decisions. He possessed an inner wisdom that never failed to guide him along the right path. He didn't need her to show him the way. However, it warmed her to know that he valued her as a sounding board and advisor.

"Perhaps the problem is that her dreams have been too subtle. The dreams may need to be stronger, more forceful, clearer, so they make a deeper impact on her subconscious memories, make her more eager to regain her lost memory and with it find the truth of who and what she is." He mulled over his newest solution for a moment. "Yes, I think that's the answer, Clara. More forceful memories, more vivid."

Clara had to admit that Carrie wasn't as yet seeing the true depth of the problem she faced, nor was she displaying any urgency to find the missing pieces of her memory. It had worried the Weaver for some time that Carrie seemed content to let them come to her at their own pace.

Still, Clara wasn't sure she liked the sound of Emanuel's answer to the problem, but then, she reminded herself, he would never do anything to hurt one of the Assignments. His purpose was to heal, not to inflict more scars. And, it was true, that to reach true peace of mind, one sometimes had to endure a little pain on the way. Clara knew that whatever Emanuel decided must be done would, in the end, bring that peace to Carrie, a peace she so richly deserved and for which she'd been yearning for far too long.

***

Carrie allowed her fingertips to trail in the stream's cooling waters. Then, recalling what had happened the last time she'd done that, she quickly snatched her hand back and used the hem of her skirt to dry it.

Lifting her face to the clear, blue sky, she squinted against the sun's brilliant rays and wondered if it ever rained in Renaissance. She'd been here for weeks, and every day had been the same: sunshine, soft breezes, and no rain. Though enjoyable, the monotony of each day resembling the last was rubbing her nerves raw. Unbidden, she found herself longing for the change of seasons and the relief of a long, rainy afternoon to laze around and read before a blazing fire.

Rousing herself from longing for things that were not going to materialize until she had her memory back and could return to the outside world, she centered her thoughts on trying to recall more of the many things she'd forgotten. Though she'd decided early on that trying to force herself into remembering was not worth the painful headaches that accompanied the process, she had now changed her mind. She was impatient to learn more of herself, and if enduring the pain was the price she would have to pay for retrieving her memories, it was a small one, and she'd willingly pay it.

Closing her eyes, she summoned those lost memories. Minutes passed, and a blank canvas stared back at her. The only thing that she accomplished was another searing pain in her right temple. It was useless.

Standing, she decided to go inside and spend some time with Clara. She had no sooner straightened and taken the first step when her world started to spin out of control. A thick haze enveloped her. Her knees gave way. The damp grass cushioned her fall. Then an inky black tunnel sucked her down into nothingness.

***

He was there again. She could feel his presence. The evil that seemed to always surround him like a black cloud lay thick on the air. His heavy, shuffling footsteps drew closer. Huddled deep in the closet, she lay very still, holding her breath, hoping if he opened the door that the clothes would hide her. Her heart thudded against her chest. Fearing he would hear it, she pressed her hand over her right breast to muffle the pounding that echoed in her ears.

The door creaked open. Light spilled in. She could see the tips of his heavy work boots.

God, please don't let him find me. Please.

Pain, excruciating and sharp, exploded in her scalp. Hauled from the depths of her hiding place by her hair, he threw her across the bedroom floor. As her face skidded across the carpeting, she could feel the skin being ripped raw. Her body came to a stop when the dresser's corner cut into her side. More pain radiated through her body, but she was too busy trying to move out of his reach to give it thought.

"I'll teach you to run from me, bitch! Next time stand up and take what you've got coming!"

But she hadn't moved fast enough or far enough. His fist connected with her face. Her head jerked back on her neck. She felt her jawbone crack. More pain. She cried out. Warm liquid ran from her nose, the corner of her mouth, and over her chin. Blood. She cried out again.

"Shut up, bitch!" He swung again.

The imprint of his knuckles as they battered her shoulders and back left behind more pain. A starburst of agony ripped through her shoulders and ran down her spine. She'd barely had time to register this new onslaught when his foot shot out. The toe of his work boot connected with her stomach. Air rushed from her lungs. White-hot pain knifed through her ribs.

This time, knowing what the punishment would be if she cried out, she didn't make a sound. Instead, she bit her lip until she tasted the coppery sweetness of her own blood. And then she waited for his next blow to find her.

But as suddenly as the punishing beating had started, it stopped. Through her tears, she could see him leaving the room. The door slammed behind him. She closed her eyes and lay back on the floor, her broken body racked with pain, her crimson blood soaking into the carpet.

***

When Carrie opened her eyes, she was lying on the soft, cool grass outside Clara's cottage. Unlike her other dreams, this one had been vividly real. Pain still pounded through her body, and when she looked down, her arms still bore the bruises he'd inflicted before she'd found refuge in the closet.

But as she stared at them, the bruises faded, and the pain ebbed from her body. Soon she felt as good as she had before she'd fainted. But, although the marks left by the pummeling she'd endured had faded, the memory of the brutal beating remained vividly engraved in her mind. If the faceless man was, as she suspected, her husband, then she'd married an inhuman, unfeeling, brutal beast.

Why had she allowed him to treat her like that? What kind of a wimp was she that she hadn't fought back? There were any number of things she could have used to split his skull open—

The last thought brought her up short. My God, what kind of a monster had
she
turned into? She was no better than that faceless, evil creation of the devil.

Then she recalled all that blood on her the night she'd wandered into the library, seeking help. Irma had said that a head wound bled a lot, but Carrie couldn't believe that the amount of blood that had been all over her had come from the cut she'd had on her forehead.

So where
had
the blood had come from? Had she had enough of his brutality and killed him? Is that why she'd wiped everything from her memory? Newspaper stories of wives killing their abusive husbands flashed through her mind. Is that what she was hiding away in her lost memory?

She pressed her hands against her temples, trying to force some kind of coherent thought into her brain.

Think, Carrie, think. What happened after he walked out of the room
?

Had she followed him and bludgeoned him to death? Shot him? Drove a steak knife into his black heart? Try as she might, nothing came back to her.

One question, however, kept returning. Had there been enough blood on her to prove she had killed a man? Was she a murderess? Frantically, she tried to force her memory to recall something it might never have known. With a sigh, she ordered herself to relax.

Then it came to her.

She may have no idea how much blood a human being had to lose before life left the body, but she knew one person who might be able to tell her exactly how much blood a human could lose and live.

***

Frank listened at the door to make sure Alvin was gone. He didn't need to talk about Sandy or anything to do with her death any more today. When he heard no sounds coming from the outer room, he opened the door and stepped out.

The orchid was gone, and so was Alvin. Frank poured himself some coffee and was about to take a sip when the door burst open. Haloed in rays of the dying sun that concealed her face, Carrie stood statue like.

"Carrie?"

"I need… I need to ask you… something." She stepped inside and closed the door.

Without the glare of the sun obscuring his view, he could now see the lines of worry creasing her beautiful face. Her teeth gnawed at her bottom lip. In front of her, her hands were clasped so tightly, he wondered if the blood could still circulate to her fingers.