Twelve Days (35 page)

He stopped her at the door to the room, trying to prepare her. She still gasped at the figure on the bed, who seemed so desperately frail, her face a bruised, swollen mess.

Sam guided Rachel into the room and down into a chair at Annie Greene's bedside. Annie held out her hand to Rachel, and Rachel took it. Sam stood behind his wife, his hands on her shoulders.

"I just wanted to see the two of you," she whispered weakly, haltingly. "And to thank you. Emma and Zach said... you've been very kind."

"You have wonderful children," Rachel said, her voice trembling.

"I'm afraid I'm going to be here for a while," she said. "Your aunt said you're willing to keep them... for as long as it takes?"

"As long as it takes," Sam said.

"Thank you. It... I was so scared when I realized how long I'd been here. I imagined all sorts of terrible things happening to them..."

Sam stifled the urge to ask why she'd taken such a risk by coming here. Why she'd ever married a man who beat her and stayed with him all those years or how she came to be in a situation where there was no one but two strangers and the child welfare system to take care of her children. He was angry, but he could contain it for now. It wasn't the time to demand explanations of anyone.

"We'll take good care of them," he vowed.

"Thank you," she said, and a moment later had drifted off, either asleep or unconscious again, they couldn't tell.

"Come on." Sam tightened his hands on Rachel's shoulders. "Let's go."

They were just outside the door, in the hall, when Rachel turned blindly into his arms and started to cry.

He held her for a long moment, feeling helpless once again and hating it all the more.

"She looks so bad," Rachel said, her face against his shoulder. "I can't imagine what she's been through, can't imagine a man who's supposed to love me, one who's the father of my children doing something like that to me. And the children... No wonder they were so scared."

"I know."

Sam heard footsteps and looked up to see a woman in a white coat coming down the hall, a tag that identified her as a doctor. She paused in front of them and said, "You're friends of Mrs. Greene's?"

Rachel hastily dried her tears and together they faced the doctor. "We're taking care of her children," Sam said. "They want to know how she is."

"She doesn't seem to have any neurological damage from the head injury, which had us worried because she hadn't regained consciousness before today." There was an odd look on the doctor's face. "But... it's going to be a long road. I would say as little as possible at this moment to her children."

Sam frowned, wondering what was being left unsaid. Finally he settled for asking, "She's going to be here for a while? Days? Weeks?"

"Weeks, at least," the doctor said, excusing herself and walking back into Annie's room.

Sam stood there for a moment, facing his wife, holding her by her arms, hating this look on her face. It brought back too many memories of too many bad times. "It's late," he said finally. "The kids have to be exhausted. Let's take them home."

Rachel nodded, slipped her arm around his waist, and together they walked back down the hallway to the waiting room and tried not to look so grim once they got there. They had children to take care of.

* * *

They'd talked briefly with Miriam before she left the house. She said as far as they were concerned, nothing had changed. The children were still wards of the state, and Sam and Rachel were still their foster parents. It was hard to say what would happen next. There might be relatives of Annie's or even her husband's who might come forward and want to take care of them. Relatives who could provide a stable home were normally favored over strangers.

If there was no one but Sam and Rachel to care for them, Miriam didn't know what might happen when Annie Greene was released from the hospital, how a judge might view her leaving them alone in that motel, even if it was only supposed to be for the day. They'd all have to wait and see.

They got back to the house and put the kids to bed, and then together they faced a house filled with the ghosts of the Christmas just past. Someone had left the lights on the tree and the ones on the outside of the house on. They blinked with annoying regularity, seeming to mock the events of the day. There were presents all over the place. Everything seemed as disorganized and scattered as the house was, and the day that was supposed to be so special, so magical, was ending in such disarray.

Sam didn't even know what to hope for anymore. He wanted the children to be happy and safe. He wondered if they ever would be with their mother. He had a knot in his stomach just thinking about giving them back to her. He wanted to be their safe harbor, the one place they could always turn to.

And then there was Rachel. He was supposed to leave in the morning, but he wasn't going anywhere for now. And he owed it to his friend to tell him something about the apartment. If it had been just twenty-four hours ago, Sam would have said he was staying, that he and Rachel could make this work.

But this was his and Rachel's worst nightmare come true.

Sam looked up the staircase and dreaded going up there, had a sinking feeling about what he would find. She hadn't come down since she went to check on Emma, and that had been thirty minutes ago.

Just a month ago, Sam would never have thought of going up there to see if she was okay. He'd have known she wasn't and been out of ideas about how he might help. He'd have hidden in his office and hoped she was asleep by the time he came inside. Because he would have exhausted every bit of energy he had trying to make her feel better and been dying to escape the misery in this house. He didn't feel that way now, but he was simply afraid of going back to living the way they had for so long.

Slowly, dread dogging his every step, he climbed to the second floor and went from bedroom to bedroom. Zach and the baby were asleep. So was Emma. His and Rachel's bedroom was empty, but the bathroom door was closed.

How many times had he found her weeping in the bathtub? How many times had he walked away. This time he stood by the door and said, "Rachel?"

"Yes?" she called out.

He heard the sound of water lapping against the sides of the tub and sagged against the door. "I just wanted to know where you were."

"I'll be right out," she claimed.

He sat on the bed and waited, looking out the window at the lights still on in the neighborhood. He'd actually looked forward to Christmas this year, and now he was so tired. He didn't even know what to wish for, what to pray for.

Rachel had talked about taking things on faith. He'd only known one kind—the kind that told him no matter what, nothing was going to work out, that it never had.

And yet, some things had.

He looked around at the house and realized it was their place, the keeper of their memories, the stage of their lives. He couldn't imagine being anywhere else, couldn't imagine doing anything else with his life but taking old things and making them new and strong and whole again. It wasn't what he'd always wanted, but now that he had it, he realized how much he enjoyed it, how satisfying it was to him. To make something tangible and enduring. He could drive through town and look at building after building and think,
I did that. I helped make it what it is today.

Life here hadn't been without its satisfactions.

Sam heard the bathroom door open with a slight creak and Rachel was standing there in a mix of heat and enticing smells. The lavender she put in her bathwater or rubbed on her skin, now mixed with the heat and the condensation in the bathroom, unfurled like a cloud into their bedroom, billowing out and surrounding him. He loved this smell, the Rachel-straight-from-the-bath smell.

She had her hair piled haphazardly on top of her head, little bits of it escaping in damp curls at her nape, and her skin had that rosy glow. He knew how dewy soft it would be right now, how warm, how good it would taste.

She had on the robe he'd given her and, he thought, nothing else. It was paper thin, enticing more than covering, and clinging to every inch of her slightly damp skin. Her eyes showed evidence of recent tears, but again, she didn't look like a woman on the verge of falling apart. She looked sad and oddly tentative, but determined, as well.

"The children are asleep," she said. "Miriam's gone?"

Sam nodded.

"She didn't say anything else to you about what's going to happen?"

"No."

"You're not keeping anything else from me? About them?"

"I'm not keeping anything at all from you."

"Okay. I didn't mean... I understand why you didn't tell me about Annie—"

"I didn't know, Rachel. Nothing for sure. I didn't even have my suspicions about it until I talked to Emma a few days ago."

"I understand." She stood there, not coming any closer, not seeming any surer than he was about what to do next. Finally, she said, "You told Annie we'd keep the children, and I wondered... I assumed..."

"I'm not going anywhere, Rachel. I'll call Rick tomorrow and tell him."

"You mean, you're not going while they're here?"

"That's right."

"And after that..."

"I'm not sure," he admitted, taking a deep, slow breath. He felt as if he were on the edge of a cliff all of a sudden, like one misstep and he'd lose everything.

"This changes everything between us?" she asked tentatively.

"I don't know. Does it?"

"I... I don't know." She stood there a moment longer. Finally, sighing, she said, "And I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed."

She flicked off the bathroom light and then the light on the bedside table, the room suddenly bathed in shadows and the glow from the front window that faced the well-lit street. She was close enough that he could smell her now, as he had in that moment all the fragrance wafted out of the bathroom in her wake. He wanted to touch her. He wanted so much. But he was worried, too.

"I know you wanted to keep them," he began.

"I did."

"And I know it hurts—"

"This is what they wanted, Sam. She's their mother. I know how powerful that bond is. I still miss my own mother, and I was more than twice Emma's age when I lost her. I wouldn't wish that kind of sorrow on anyone."

"Still..."

"I'm sad for us. Of course I am. But I'm not sorry we took them into our home. They needed us, and we helped them through this. I'm glad we could do that. And they've been good for us," she said. "I don't know why this happened, why these children came here now. I don't know why anything ever happens, but I don't regret this. Not one bit."

She had tears in her eyes by the time she was done, but then he did, too, and he couldn't hide them from her.

"You are so good with them," she said, reaching out and taking his hand. "I've never seen you open up to anyone like you did with them. They needed things that only you could give them, and you did it. It made me love you more than ever."

"Rachel—"

"It's all right." She stopped him. "I'd like to get in bed now."

"Okay."

He stood up, pulled back the sheet, and let her climb in. He pulled the covers up around her and put his hand to her cheek.

"You can sleep here, if you want," she offered.

And he wanted. He wasn't sure if it was smart, but he wanted.

"I didn't lock up before I came upstairs," he said.

"Okay."

"I'll be up in a minute."

* * *

Rachel watched him go, feeling utterly drained and empty. She had no idea if he would come back, and she wanted so badly to have his arms around her, have the familiar bulk and warmth of his body next to hers in the bed.

She wasn't going to beg him to stay. She didn't have the right; after all, she'd promised him if they could just have the children here until after Christmas she wouldn't ask him for anything more. And Christmas had come and gone.

She lay perfectly still in the bed, conscious of every sound in the house, waiting for that faint creak of footsteps on the stairs, thinking,
Come back to me, Sam. Just one more time. Come back.

And he did. She heard him coming up the stairs. He went into the bathroom, and she waited some more. If he walked away now...

The bathroom door opened. She heard him shedding his clothes, draping them over a chair in the corner. He had drawn back the covers and was slipping inside when she realized she was shaking badly. Delayed reaction to the events of the day and the depths of her fear about what was going to happen tonight with her and Sam and tomorrow with the children.

He lay on his back, not touching her at first, and then he extended his arm off to the right, between the top of her head and the headboard. That was the invitation she'd been waiting for. She rolled onto her side and then settled herself against him, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, their legs intertwined.

Rachel let out a shaky breath, her heart racing.

"You're trembling," he said, angling his body toward hers, pushing her face down to his chest.

She was also fighting to keep her breath slow and even, to hold back her tears, because he hated it when she cried. Or maybe she'd simply spent too much time crying in the last few months. It had truly been an awful time.

"I'm going to miss them, too, Rachel," he said, as if they were already gone.

"I know."

"But I am glad we had them, too. You're right. It was the right thing for us to do."

He stroked a hand back and forth along her back, rubbing at the tension in her shoulders, at the base of her spine. Slowly, she was relaxing, the shivering lessening. He had wonderful hands—strong and warm and a bit rough from his calluses—and it was good to have his hands on her, to have him here in her bed. She turned her head and dropped a kiss onto his chest, then tilted her head back, turned his face to hers, brushed his lips with hers. The kiss was hesitant at first, questioning, and then deeper and needier.

He pulled away and put his hand on the side of her face, staring down at her through the darkness. He was shaking, too, she realized, not sure why, not sure why he was holding back now.