Sister Dear (3 page)

“Earth to Caro?”

Maddie's poke in the ribs launched her back to the present.

Caroline's body jolted. “Ow! What'd I miss?” She wrinkled her nose.

“Absolutely nothing, other than I was telling you about
Will
.” Maddie shot Caroline a fake reproachful look and then broke out into a wide grin. Will was the latest in Maddie's merry-go-round of never-ending boyfriends. She traded them in faster than Caroline could keep track.

“What did he say?” Caroline mouthed.

Maddie sighed and waved a hand in Caroline's face, causing
her sweet perfume to billow from her wrists. “I swear, you're in another universe today.” She rolled her eyes and snapped her mint gum. “It's the dream guy, isn't it?”

Caroline hesitated, glad Maddie couldn't see through to her brain, where all of her real thoughts swirled like debris in a tornado.

“I don't know.” She tried to grin.

“Liar,” Maddie teased under her breath.

Caroline flushed pink. A few months ago, she'd caught the attention of one of Mansfield Academy's star football players. Tall and muscled, Jake Robinson made her head swim. The way his dark hair fell over one green eye, the way he slung his arm around her and held her close, and especially the way his lips felt on hers.

He'd noticed Caroline when Maddie had practically shoved the two of them together at a party on East Beach. There'd been a bonfire, and Caroline had downed one too many beers. By the end of the evening, she was sitting in his lap. They'd been the high school's “it” couple ever since.

Though Jake made her heart do backflips, she maintained a smooth, sweet demeanor. Calm. In control. Inside, Caroline quaked with anxiety. She felt tall and gangly. An alien, beamed down from Mars, wearing strawberry-scented lip gloss.

“I'm a little jealous,” Maddie continued. “You live with your aunt, which is cool enough. Then your grandparents buy you whatever you want. Like, you'll probably get a BMW for your next birthday.”

“Yeah, right.” Caroline made herself giggle and tugged a lock of hair, wrapping it tight around her finger until it throbbed. She released the strands and made a face at Maddie. It was easier that way, to pretend it was all good.

Caroline
was
lucky. She had no strict curfews, no list of chores, no little brother or baby sister to watch after school. Her days
were filled, the calendar jammed with circled dates and Sharpie-marker hearts. Her grandmother spoiled her. Emma ferried her everywhere—the mall, football games, lunches—and never, ever complained.

Though Caroline had been told more than a few times by her grandparents that she was book-smart and a diligent student like her mother, physically, she and Emma looked much more alike. Outside Brunswick, people always confused them as mother and daughter. Same last name, same deep brown eyes and long, wavy dark hair, same lithe build.

After a while, her aunt didn't even bother to correct the confusion. And it never bothered Caroline; she actually liked to hear people call Emma her mother.

Now, though, it was all ruined.

The clock was ticking, the wick burning down. The bomb she was about to drop on Maddie would surely blow her world apart. She tried to form the words.
Hey. My mom's getting out of prison.

It was one thing to have a mother in jail, locked up and far away. To her friends, the idea was surreal, scary, but fascinating, like watching an anaconda slink behind thick glass. Distance and protection made everything okay.

Her mother, living right here in Brunswick? That was another thing altogether.

Her aunt and grandparents broke the news during a regular Sunday dinner. Over the rising steam from shrimp and grits. “Pass the yeast rolls, please? Oh, and by the way, your mother's getting paroled from Arrendale. Emma's going to pick her up on Tuesday.” Caroline's fork had fallen from her hand, clattering to the hardwood floor. Incredulous, she had blinked at Emma.

“How long have you known?” Caroline had asked, her voice cracking.

They'd known for months.
Months.
Grandma Lily had wanted to say something sooner, but Emma insisted they wait. And then the justification started.

“You have school. Your grades,” Grandpa Paul interjected.

“We didn't want to upset you for no reason,” her grandmother added.

Emma reached over to squeeze her hand. “We were just looking out for you.”

Her lips parted to respond, but Caroline couldn't think of a single thing to say. She loved her aunt and her grandparents, but they were so overprotective, treating her as if she were a hand-blown glass figurine instead of a living, breathing teenager.

Maddie nudged her out of her daze. “So, this weekend?”

Caroline jumped.

“Somebody's on edge.” Maddie gave her a sideways look and bent closer to the mirror.

Unable to make her mouth work, Caroline watched as Maddie freshened her lip gloss. She'd been talking right along, and Caroline hadn't heard a word.

The confession about her mother was caught—in a tangle of words—just over her heart. Not explaining was worse. Letting Maddie find out from someone else? She'd freak. Besides, everyone would know soon. The whole school, the neighbors. Everyone in the entire state of Georgia.

The bell sounded, long and loud. The ringing penetrated Caroline's brain with snare drum precision. Chatter erupted all around her, and everyone jostled for the door. Maddie was still talking. Her mouth was moving, but Caroline couldn't hear her.

With a wave, Maddie disappeared, melting into the rush of students. She had math. Or Spanish. Something. Caroline had missed her chance.

Throat dry, Caroline edged into the crush of students and shuffled to the next classroom, in a building across campus. Outside, the sun beamed overhead, and a warm, salty wind blew off the Atlantic. Squinting against the bright light, Caroline hurried, clutching her books to her chest like a shield.

She ducked into her seat in the biology classroom. Head down, chin close to her chest, Caroline stuck a hand in her backpack. She found her notebook and flipped open the pages, scanning the words.

They'd been talking about PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. Some of the kids' parents were soldiers. A few, just back from Afghanistan, were seriously messed up. Didn't know their own families, couldn't remember names or birthdays. It was like their minds had been scrubbed clean with Drano.

And all entirely normal, according to her biology teacher. The human brain knew what to remember and what to forget. Caroline looked at her notes.

After humans suffer trauma, the body reacts. Amnesia, selective or not, is the body's way of protecting the brain from suffering.

So, Caroline supposed, the key takeaway was this: if life was bad enough, if things really sucked, a person's mind ran its own witness protection program.

Simple.

Easy.

Except . . . Caroline's eyes filled with tears.

She could never forget.

FOUR

SHERIFF GAINES

2016

Sheriff Lee Gaines hit his stride halfway through his five-mile run. It was a perfect day, with wisps of white clouds dotting the azure sky. Had it been a Saturday, he would have driven a few miles across the Torras Causeway, passed the welcome sign to St. Simons Island, and taken Kings Way to the Lighthouse Museum. From there, he'd begin his run, enjoying a spectacular view of the rocky coastline and silver-blue waves under a canopy of leaves and Spanish moss. He loved smelling the sea air as he wound through Beachview Drive and Oglethorpe Avenue.

But it was a weekday, and with Chief, his German shepherd, close to his side, Gaines followed his routine through downtown, near the hospital, with a final loop around the College of Coastal Georgia.

Like an NFL kicker who touched his right temple before a punt or a baseball player who needed a certain brand of gum for good luck, Gaines had his rituals. But unlike pro athletes, these routines weren't for winning or getting a twenty-million-dollar salary.

His life was about discipline.

Sweating in the humid morning air, breathing in the scent of newly paved asphalt, he pushed himself the last hundred yards, sprinting to his front steps.

Last week he'd finally moved into his new home. It was only a few blocks away from the one he'd shared with June, but this one was smaller, with a more manageable yard and a big fence. It was what he needed now.

As he rounded the corner to enter through the back door, he caught sight of the For Sale sign he'd been meaning to dispose of. He hesitated, then opened the back of his patrol car and lifted the sign, sliding it inside. Now at least he wouldn't have to see it—this reminder of loss and change—every time he pulled into the driveway.

Not all reminders were bad ones, though. He twisted the bulky high school ring on his right hand. In his prime, he'd led the Mansfield Wolverines to victory. He'd been quarterback and went on to play second string at Georgia State until a shoulder injury ended his college football career. He'd buried the disappointment, studied criminal justice, and entered the Glynn County Sheriff's Department immediately after graduation. Now, after nearly thirty-five years on the force, he ran the department with the precision of a marine battalion, spent time with his wife, and served as a Mansfield Academy booster and unofficial advisor to the school's athletic department.

At eight thirty, uniform on, boots laced tight, Gaines straightened his tie in the full-length mirror and scowled at the gray creeping into his hairline. After refilling a bowl of water for Chief, Gaines paused at the bedroom door. Something nudged at the back of his mind.

His calendar sat on the corner of his dresser. He strode toward it, flipped it open with one hand, ran a thick finger across the
page. This particular week had a line through it, under which he'd scribbled his secretary's name and
vacation
in capital letters.

Shoot.
Of course he'd forgotten it was
this
week. His secretary hadn't taken time off in four years or more. She was overdue. And worse than that, she had to be gone. Saturday was her daughter's wedding.

Gaines frowned and rubbed his neck. He'd muddle through, but it didn't bode well for a smooth day. He lifted his gun belt and strapped it on tight. The weapon wasn't optional. It was worn on duty, off duty, to the grocery store, and out to grab a bite to eat.

Overkill, maybe. But folks felt safe, it provided comfort, and it was a constant reminder about who was in charge. Who ran things in Brunswick.

In reality, Gaines didn't need macho accoutrements. He wasn't a Rambo-like fanatic who went around seeking trouble. The weapon was his shield; it provided distance between him and the world, protection from anyone getting too close.

And he had Chief. There was no other partner Gaines preferred.

He'd started the department's K-9 program with one dog a decade earlier. Beau, his first trainee, had served his time well. Since then, there'd been several more, but none as fine an animal as Chief. They understood each other.

If only it could be that way with June.

Thirty minutes later, after fighting the usual rush of morning tourist traffic heading to the nearby barrier islands, Gaines pulled into the nursing home parking lot. Though the outside boasted a manicured lawn and palm trees, he despised every inch of it, from the concrete driveway to the florescent lights inside. He resented the air freshener that didn't quite mask the smell of cleaning solution. His wife didn't belong here, this place where people came to die.

June—brain damaged and wheelchair bound—had been a
vibrant, caring obstetrician who'd helped birth nearly every baby in lower Coastal Georgia.

Now most days she didn't remember where she'd grown up, whether she'd gone to school, or if she'd ever married Sheriff Lee Gaines. Her emotions were erratic, rising and sinking like the tide. Her moments of lucidity were brief and jarring—bitter reminders of what June couldn't have. It made Gaines physically sick.

But he hadn't missed a visit. Not one day.

It wasn't because he was expected to make pilgrimages, as the long-suffering, dedicated husband. Sure, Gaines was a public figure. He had endured, stayed strong in the face of tragedy. Kept the people's confidence.

That was his job. This was his wife and he loved her.

“Privacy, please.” He'd wink at the aides. “I need time alone with June,” he'd add, and they'd scurry away to count meds or make notes in charts, closing the door behind them.

Gaines's emotions, grief, sorrow, bitter disappointment—the enduring anger at the man who'd robbed these years with June—emerged only in the safety of his wife's presence. And she wouldn't tell a soul.

“How are you, sweetheart?” Gaines would ask, taking her limp, soft hand. Chief, who at first would sit and cock his head expectantly, didn't bother now, choosing to lay under Gaines's feet and doze.

After remarking about his morning run, the weather, or potential weekend fishing plans, he'd kiss his wife's cool cheek and duck out the back door, swallowing back the pain.

Everyone had a cross to bear. His was just heavier than most.

Gaines entered the station, a low brick building marked with an American flag and the bright red and blue of the state flag beside it. His entrance caused a flurry of activity, and, as usual, a chorus of
greetings and acknowledgments rang from his deputies, the secretaries, and a couple of attorneys. Even when the sugar-sweet smell of doughnuts hit his nostrils, he didn't stop. He headed, unsmiling, straight for the glass door to his office.

“Boss?” Dwayne Johnston, his most senior officer, followed a step behind. They'd worked together since Johnston came on the force, wet behind the ears. Now, a dozen years later, though he'd never say it, he often thought of the deputy as a son. June, tragically, had never been able to bear them any children.