The Wishing Tide (28 page)

The lot was empty as she turned in, the heavily pocked pavement already beginning to puddle. Not a soul in sight. With any luck they had just missed each other, and Mary was back at Hope House, warm and dry and—
please, God
—safe. But from the corner of her eye, she caught a flutter of neon pink: Mary’s bike propped against a tree along the front walk. Thank God. Leaving the car in the middle of the lot, lights on, wipers going, she cut across the lawn to the front steps of the church, only to find the large double doors locked.

“She goes there when she’s sad.”

Suddenly, Lane knew where to find Mary. Circling around to the back of the church, past uneven rows of cold gray stone, she finally found her, kneeling on the wet ground, shoulders hunched, head bowed, her grief a palpable thing as she mourned at the grave of her son—of little Peter Rourke.

Emotions, hot and salty, caught in Lane’s throat. She began to second-guess what she’d come to do, thinking of all the ways her good intentions could go terribly wrong. And then she recalled the folded bit of paper in her pocket and knew what she had to do.

Before she could take a step, Mary seemed to sense her presence. Her head snapped up, eyes wide and fixed. For a moment, Lane thought she would bolt. Instead, she came up off her knees and simply stood there, her cropped white hair dripping rain into her eyes.

“Leave me alone.”

Her voice, so ragged and so very grieved, made Lane flinch. “I can’t do that, Mary. You know I can’t. There are things I need to say . . . things you need to know. Please, let me take you back to Hope House where we can talk.”

“There’s nothing either of us needs to say.”

“But there is, Mary. I think you know there is.”

Dread flickered briefly in her pale eyes. “No,” she said, and turned to go.

“Hannah . . .”

Mary turned back stiffly, her face pale as bone. “Hannah is dead.”

“We both know that isn’t true.”

“It is true! I made it true. There’s only Mary now.”

“Please, listen to me.”

Lane moved to close the distance between them but stopped when Mary began to back away. This wasn’t how she’d intended things to go. She meant to ease into it, not ambush the poor woman with the truth, and certainly not while standing beside the grave of her dead son.

“Please,” she said again. “You’re wet and you’re freezing. Let me take you back to Hope House. You can get warm, and then we’ll talk all this through.”

“There’s nothing to talk through.”

“There is. You know there is. When you didn’t show up this
morning, I went to Hope House. I’ve been to your room. I’ve seen the drawings.”

Mary lifted her chin. “They’re nothing. A crazy woman’s scribbling.”

“And the sketchbook you filled all those years ago, with the very same drawings? The one with the green leather cover—was that nothing, too?”

“How do you . . . How do you know about that book?”

The question dangled while Lane scrambled for an answer. She needed to tread carefully. “I know about the book because I have it,” she finally answered. “Some workmen found it while they were rummaging around in the basement. I had no idea what it was then. But I do now. The ship. The storm. It’s your husband. It’s how he died.”

Something in Mary seemed to break then, the pieces of her careful mask crumpling and falling away. Tears welled in her eyes, trembling unspilled. “Hannah Rourke is in her grave. Can you not—any of you—just leave her there?”

“I’m sorry, Mary. I hate upsetting you, but there are things you need to know. If you still want Hannah dead after you’ve listened to what I have to say, I’ll respect that.”

“I should never have come back,” she whispered, shaking her head miserably. “I should have stayed away, but I couldn’t.”

“Because you needed to be near Peter,” Lane supplied quietly. “Because you needed to be near your son.”

Mary turned to stare at the small gray stone, her tears finally spilling over. “I wasn’t there when they buried him. They wouldn’t let me. I killed him, you see. Did I ever tell you that?”

The grief in her voice, the sorrow in her eyes, broke Lane’s heart. She couldn’t be allowed to remember it that way, to blame herself for something that wasn’t her fault.

“No, Mary. Peter died in a fire. It was an accident.”

“So many pills,” she whispered, her eyes waxing vacant. “I
swallowed them—all of them—with half a bottle of scotch. I wanted it to stop—for the pain to stop, and the shame. Instead, I killed him. When the fire started I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t help my boy!”

Lane closed her eyes, shuddering against the image. The guilt of it, the daily, heart-wrenching horror of living with such a thing, would be enough to push anyone over the edge.

“It was an accident, Mary, a terrible accident. You never meant for Peter to be hurt.”

Mary wasn’t listening. Her eyes darted anxiously to her bike out near the road.
Please, God, don’t let her run again
. But the thought came too late.

Without a word, Mary darted past the gravestones and made a break for the road. Lane followed, struggling to see through rain-soaked bangs. She couldn’t let Mary get on that bike. Not in her current state. Taking the angle, she cut across the churchyard, reaching the bike just as Mary was scrambling onto the seat. She took hold of the handlebars, but Mary was too quick, wheeling around in the opposite direction and out into the street.

Lane heard herself scream, but the warning came too late, the white four-door Nissan too fast. There was a slick, wet skid of tires, a stomach-lurching thud, then the crunch and clatter of metal as Mary’s bike went catapulting over the asphalt.

Time slowed hideously, so that an eternity seemed to pass before Lane was able to make her legs move, but finally she was kneeling beside Mary. She was breathing, thank God, but she was still and so very pale, her left arm splayed at an awkward angle, an ugly gash on her forehead weeping blood down her temple and into her dripping wet hair.

On the sidewalk, the Nissan driver was screaming at 911 dispatch to send an ambulance. She might have just killed a bag lady, the one that rides around on the bike with the pink flag.

L
ane told them what she could at the ER desk, which wasn’t much, other than that Mary had some
problems
and was on medication for her mental state. “She usually keeps them with her, in a purple bag, but I didn’t see her carrying it today. Is she going to be all right?”

The desk nurse glanced up over her clipboard but seemed not to have heard the question. “Has she taken her meds today?”

“I don’t really know. I don’t live with her. I’m just . . . a friend. I was there when it happened. Please, can you at least tell me if she’s conscious?”

“The doctor’s looking at her now. In the meantime, we’ll need more information about her meds. Does Mary have a local physician? Someone we can call for patient records?”

Lane felt utterly helpless. “I have no idea. She’s . . . I have no idea. You could call Hope House. Maybe someone there knows.”

A second nurse, petite with a salt-and-pepper pixie cut, glanced up from the frilly strand of silver garland she was taping along the edge of the desk. “Did you say Hope House?”

“Yes. She lives there.”

“And her name is Mary?”

Lane nodded, vaguely aware that something had shifted in the conversation.

Before she could say another word the woman was on the phone, requesting that a Dr. Stephen Ashton be paged immediately. When she hung up, she gave Lane a blank smile and directed her to the ER’s waiting area.

Shivering and soaked to the skin, Lane fumbled in her purse for a few coins and dropped them into the vending machine, then waited numbly for the paper cup to fill. The thin brown liquid could only loosely be called coffee, but at least it was hot. Sagging into one of the hard plastic chairs, she considered calling Michael and asking him to bring some dry clothes but ultimately decided against it. She wasn’t ready to explain any of this to him yet.

She’d spent the drive to the hospital trying to think of some gentle way to break the news that his dead mother was actually alive, but she’d come up empty. How, exactly, did one begin such a conversation? The thought made her queasy. And yet, sooner or later, he would have to know the truth—and decide what to do with it. She only prayed he would somehow find it in his heart to forgive.

It was nearly dark when she jerked awake to the sound of rain pelting the ER’s glass double doors. Stiff, and slightly numb, she shifted in the torturous chair and tried to get her bearings. At some point, the nurse with the pixie cut had stopped by with a blanket and the news that while Mary was pretty banged up, she was expected to make a full recovery. Relieved, exhausted, and warm for the first time in hours, she had dropped off instantly. Now she wanted more information, and to see Mary for herself. No, not Mary, she reminded herself—Hannah. She needed to start thinking of her as Hannah now.

“You’re awake.” It was the nurse with the pixie cut. “I just spoke with Mary’s doctor. He’ll be out in a few minutes to speak with you.”

Lane felt a frisson of dread. She let the blanket slide off her shoulders as she stretched stiffly to her feet. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. He just wants to have a word. Mary’s . . . sort of a special case.”

On cue, a man in a well-cut suit and shiny black shoes came through the swinging doors. “Dr. Stephen Ashton,” he said, extending a hand. His hair was graying and impeccably combed, his face shiny-smooth from a recent shave.

“Lane Kramer. I’m a friend of Mary’s.”

“Can we take a walk, Ms. Kramer?”

Lane nodded, falling into step beside him.

“The attending tells me you were with Mary when the accident occurred.”

“I was. It was . . . God, it was awful. Is she hurt very badly?”

Ashton frowned, tugging thoughtfully at his chin. “She sustained some injuries, a fractured skull and a concussion, but all in all, she appears to have been very lucky. We’re keeping her in ICU as a precaution, though it’s not her physical condition we’re worried about so much as . . . other things.”

Other things.

Lane heard the warning bells go off. “May I see her?”

“Yes, in a moment, but first there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you . . . about Mary’s mental state. As you probably know, she has no family to speak of, which means she’s going to have to depend on friends as she recuperates. You may not be aware that Mary has had a somewhat difficult past, and that from time to time she suffers from . . . episodes.”

Lane held up a hand. There was no sense tiptoeing around it. “I’m aware of Mary’s . . . condition, Dr. Ashton. And I know something of her past.”

He seemed surprised but nodded. “Good. I’ll speak freely, then.
This afternoon, at the time of the accident, how would you describe Mary’s emotional state? I’m asking because it feels a little odd, riding her bike out in front of an oncoming car.”

“You’re asking if I think she did it on purpose, if she was trying to . . . hurt herself?”

“I am.”

“Oh God . . .”

Lane felt the blood drain from her face. It had never occurred to her that Mary might have been trying to end her life. It wasn’t really out of the realm of possibility, though, was it? That she’d rather die than face her past? And if she now told Dr. Ashton the truth—that Mary had been upset, and why—what then? They might lock her up again, send her back to the White Coats.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Kramer. It’s a terrible thing to suggest, I know. But I have to ask. There’s some history there, you see.”

Lane nodded numbly. “I know her history. I’ve seen the scars. But what happened today was an accident. I’m sure of it.”

“She was in good spirits, then? Nothing going on that might have upset her?”

“She wasn’t trying to hurt herself,” Lane said firmly, sidestepping the question. “It was an accident.”

Ashton pretended to accept her answer, though he was clearly skeptical. “I’m asking because she seemed rather agitated when she came into the ER.” He paused then and looked at Lane pointedly. “You understand, Ms. Kramer, that for Mary, agitation can be a rather dangerous state?”

Lane took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Time to stop dancing around it. “We’d been talking about the past— about Hannah’s past.”

“I see.” Ashton did a remarkable job of hiding his surprise. “Then you’ll understand what I’m about to tell you. Mrs. Rourke has been
through a very traumatic injury, one that could just as easily have killed her. We’ve given her something to keep her calm and help her rest, but we really don’t know what to expect when we withdraw the sedation. Do you understand?”

Lane nodded. It seemed strange to hear Mary referred to as Mrs. Rourke. “Have you any idea how long she’ll need to be hospitalized, Dr. Ashton? I’ll need to let her son know what’s happened, and I’m sure he’ll ask.” She was actually sure of no such thing but liked to think it was true.

This time Ashton didn’t hide his surprise. “I haven’t seen Hannah in almost a year. I wasn’t aware that she was in contact with her son.”

“She isn’t yet, but there’s been . . . a development.”

Ashton eyed her warily. “What kind of development?”

“Evan is here, in Starry Point. He doesn’t know about Hannah yet, but I’m hoping . . .”

“For a reunion?”

“Something like that, yes. I know it’ll be a bit of a shock when he learns she’s alive, and that it’s going to take some time before he’s ready to let her back into his life. But eventually . . .”

Ashton placed a hand on her arm. “Ms. Kramer, I want to caution you in the strongest terms possible against what you’re planning. If Evan isn’t ready to accept Hannah back into his life, if he isn’t ready to forgive the past, bringing the two of them together may well prove catastrophic. That kind of emotional shock, a reminder of that terrible time in her life, the loss of her husband and her son, could easily reverse whatever progress we’ve managed to make over the years, and ruin any hope of further recovery.”

Lane blinked at him. “You call the way she is now
progress
? Still believing, after all these years, that Peter’s death was her fault? Pretending to be someone else because she can’t forgive herself for an accident that happened thirty years ago?”

“If you had seen her right after the fire you’d understand the kind of demons she’s had to overcome. It’s been a long road back, a hard road, and I’m committed to keeping her on it. Hannah’s condition is manageable—as long as her environment remains safe and stable.”

“I thought if she could see her son again, and know that he doesn’t blame her for what happened, maybe she could finally learn to forgive herself.”

“Are you saying he doesn’t blame her?”

Lane met the doctor’s gaze and for a moment she felt her chin wobble. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t say that. I can’t say that at all.”

The hand he placed on her shoulder was reassuring but unmistakably firm. “What you’re trying to do is laudable, Ms. Kramer, and under the right circumstances, might actually have merit. But as things stand now, a reunion that isn’t welcome equally by both parties could cause untold harm. If you’re hell-bent on doing this, and I suspect you are, I strongly advise you to be sure her son is fully on board before attempting any kind of reunion.”

Lane felt a flutter of hope. “So you’re not saying no?”

“I’m saying her son has to be ready to forgive before you attempt anything of the sort, and the sooner that conversation takes place the better. Remember what’s at stake.”

There was no mistaking the gravity of his words, or their meaning. Lane nodded, then forced herself to ask the hard question. “Do you think . . . would she still be capable of . . . something like that?”

Ashton gentled his expression, though his tone was no less grave. “Ms. Kramer, under the right circumstances, we’re all capable of something like that. But I won’t lie to you. Given Hannah’s history, she’s a bit more prone than most. What happened today is an example of what can occur when the balance is upset. It could have been much, much worse.”

Lane nodded. “I understand. Can I see her now?”

“Briefly, yes. But you need to prepare yourself; she’s pretty banged up. Nothing that won’t heal, but it’s pretty dramatic-looking stuff.”

“Is she conscious?”

“We’ve got her sedated, which at this point is as much for her mental state as for the pain. We’ll start weaning her off tomorrow and see how it goes.”