Woman in Black (52 page)

For a long moment, Concepción regarded her in silence: the physical embodiment of Abigail's guilt. The guilt she felt not just for her role in Concepción's daughter's death but for all the smaller sins that had paved the path to her own personal hell.

At last Concepción Delgado spoke.

Concepción recalled little
of the aftermath of the fire. All she remembered was being whisked away in an ambulance, concerned faces hovering over her, then being trundled down a hospital corridor on a gurney, banks of fluorescent lights glaring down at her like a cold sun, every inch of her body on fire despite the shot they'd given her for the pain.

After that, she'd slept—she didn't know for how long—awakening to the whoosh and beeps of machines, to find a plastic mask clamped over her nose and mouth. In her disorientation, she'd forgotten where she was and pulled the mask from her face in order to climb out of bed. She was prevented from doing so by the tube attached to her wrist at one end and to a bag of clear fluid hanging from a pole next to her bed at the other. Her fevered brain spun.
What place is this?
she wondered. Even her body, swathed in bandages, didn't feel like her own. It was swollen and throbbing, and it hurt to breathe.

When her head cleared, she remembered that she was in a hospital. From behind the curtain around her bed, voices floated toward her from time to time, and every so often, a nurse came to check on her. She drifted in and out of consciousness over the next hour or so until she was summoned from her sleep by a woman's voice—the voice of the Señora—murmuring to someone in the next bed, presumably her daughter. Then it all came rushing back, and the knowledge that the girl was alive brought grateful tears to her eyes. There had been enough tragedy already, she thought. She couldn't have endured another death, even one that would have evened the score.

And now here was the Señora standing over her, tears running down her face, asking for forgiveness. A display of remorse that had more to do with her own child than with Concepción's? Most likely. But either way, it no longer seemed to matter. Concepción was so tired. Not just bone-weary but tired of being on the move, of sneaking around like a criminal. Worn out, too, by the fire of righteousness that had burned within her.
Bastante
. She wanted an end to this madness. She wanted peace. She wanted …

…
Jesús
.

She remembered how he had looked when they were saying good-bye at the airport—the lines of worry in his face, the unspoken love in his eyes. Hadn't he rescued her, just as she had rescued the Señora's daughter tonight? He'd pulled her from the ashes of her despair; he'd given her hope. She wished he were here now to witness the end to her journey. For there was no doubt in her mind that it
had
come to an end. She could almost hear the voice of her
ahuelita
, saying the same thing that she had when Concepción was a child who had gotten into a fight with her sister and was angrily threatening to get back at Christina:
The full heart has no room for revenge
, mi hija.

“I want nothing from you, Señora,” she replied in her hoarse rasp. The very words she had used before, only now there was no rancor in them. All her anger was spent. “Tonight you have see for your own eyes how a life can be taken so quick, like that.” She made a clumsy attempt to snap her fingers with her bandaged hand. “Never forget this.”

“I won't,” said the Señora, clearly meaning it.

“You are blessed to still have your daughter. I am happy for that.”

“But you—”

Concepción put a hand out to stop her from going any further. “I am at peace,” she said in perfect English—as if in that moment of clarity, she'd been granted fluency of the language as well. And it was true. In that moment, Milagros's presence was so strong, it was like a physical embodiment of her spirit.

“I promise you things will be different from now on,” the Señora vowed.

Concepción regarded her from the dubious throne of her hospital bed, wondering whether the Señora would keep her promise. But who was she to sit in judgment? Hadn't she made her own share of mistakes? Hadn't she also known her share of mercy? Finally she let out a breath and eased back against the pillows. “
Claro
,” she said. Of course things would be different from now on. How could they not be? Too much had changed, too much had been lost, for it not to have altered the shape of things to come.

An awkward moment passed during which neither of them spoke. There was only the rhythmic whooshing of a pump somewhere in the room and the clattering of a cart as it rolled past in the corridor. Finally the Señora said, “Are you sure there's nothing I can get you?”

Shyly, Concepción answered, “
Sí
. There is one thing.”

“Anything—you name it.” The Señora looked relieved to be of some use.

She pictured Jesús once more. His mouth that always seemed on the verge of breaking into a smile; his eyes that showed every shading of emotion, whether happy or sad, angry or disappointed—anything but indifference, he was incapable of that—his sandpapery cheek that had been pressed against hers on the night they had lain together, nestled together like two spoons in a drawer.

The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I would like to make a call, long distance,
por favor
.”

“
Is there a rule
that says hospital coffee has to be terrible?” Lila screwed up her face as she took another sip from the steaming Styrofoam cup in her hand.

She and Karim were in the cafeteria, seated at a table by the row of windows that overlooked the parking lot. Vaughn and Gillian had gone back to the hotel, at Lila's insistence. The last thing she needed was for
his
health to suffer, she'd told her brother after noticing how beat he looked.

She didn't know where Abigail and Kent had gotten to. The last she'd seen of them, they'd been headed outside, presumably to get some fresh air or maybe to talk in private. They seemed to have arrived at some sort of understanding. With this new crisis, it looked as if they were prepared to put their grievances aside in order to join forces in helping Phoebe.

Lila knew that she would need to apply the same focus to Neal. She mustn't let anything … or anyone … distract her from doing whatever was required to keep him safe and to help him along the road to recovery. Tragedy had been averted tonight, but a very real crisis loomed still. And it was her responsibility—hers alone, with his father gone—to see her son through this. Which meant that from now on, she would be putting Neal's needs above any selfish desires she might have. With that firmly in mind, she sat sipping her foul-tasting coffee, her eyes roaming about the room, alighting on the Band Aid—colored walls, the people hunched over trays at the other tables, the view from the window, anywhere but on Karim.

She couldn't allow her resolve to waver.

“I don't think their business depends on repeat customers,” observed Karim with his usual dry wit.

Lila sighed. “You'd think I'd be used to it by now. God knows I've spent enough time in hospitals. But it was different with my mom because I knew she was going to die. And with my brother, I know he's going to survive. When it's your son and he's just tried to kill himself—” She broke off with a small, choked sound, dropping her head and bringing her fisted hand to her mouth.

“There was a reason he was spared.” Karim's voice was low and soothing. “It wasn't God's plan that he should die in this manner.”

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. “You still believe in God? After everything that's happened to you?”

He nodded. “In the Koran, it is written that the term of each life is fixed. Only Allah has power over such matters. If it were not destined so, I wouldn't be here. Nor would your son.”

She arched a brow. “So we humans have little say in the matter?”

“Only in what we choose to do with the time that is allotted to us.”

Lila had a feeling they weren't just talking about Neal anymore. “I used to believe in God,” she said. “But it's pretty hard to believe in a divine being after seeing your husband on the floor with a bullet through his head.” She hadn't set foot inside a church since Gordon's funeral.

Karim's mouth hooked up in a small, ironic smile. “And yet here you are. Surviving. Flourishing, some might say.”

She thought back to what had happened between them earlier in the evening. “So I thought. Until this.”

“You're not to blame for what happened to Neal,” he said, his voice firm.

She shrugged. “I'm a mother. It goes with the territory.”

“So what you said to Abigail, those were just words?”

“No. I meant what I said. I don't believe our kids tried to kill themselves because of anything we did or didn't do. But that doesn't mean we can go on as if it never happened. I have to do everything in my power to make sure Neal doesn't try something like that again. Even if it means putting my own life on hold for the time being.” She averted her gaze, fearful of what it would reveal: that part of her wanted only for Karim to take her in his arms, whatever the cost down the line.

“You mean us,” he translated with his usual incisiveness.

“There
is
no us. Don't you see?” Lila spoke harshly, knowing that if she didn't distance herself now, while she still had the power to do so, while the decision was still clear-cut in her mind, it would only become harder with time. “What happened with us tonight was just two people enjoying each other's company, one of whom had had too much to drink. Okay, so we enjoyed each other a little
too
much. But whatever you might think, it didn't mean anything. I like you, Karim. And I hope we can stay friends. But that's all I have to offer right now.”

“I see. So your mind is made up?” He spoke calmly, but she could see from the ridge of muscle along his clenched jaw that he was fighting to keep his emotions in check.

“I'm afraid so.”

“Then there's nothing more to discuss.”

Lila felt relieved and at the same time oddly let down. She'd expected him to put up more of a fight. The fact that he hadn't only proved that she had been right to call it off, she told herself.

“I'm glad you understand,” she said.

“You're wrong about that.” His dark eyes blazed to life. He wasn't taking this lying down; she could see that now—far from it. “I think you're making a mistake, Lila
jan
,” he said, sending a light chill through her with the Afghani endearment she'd only heard him use before when speaking on the phone with his mother and sister. “We've each been given a second chance, you and I. And such chances are rare. Do you really wish to squander it? Do you honestly believe that in doing so, you'll be helping your son? Have you considered that you might be doing him a grave disservice instead?”

She gasped at his audacity. “How can you even
think
that?”

“Like Neal, I know what it is to lose a father,” he went on in a voice as forthright as it was unapologetic. “When I tell you that the last thing your son needs right now is to feel that he is keeping his mother from her own happiness, I speak from experience.”

“What are you suggesting I do, just abandon him?” she demanded.

“No, but there's a difference between walking away and knowing when it's time to let go,” he told her. “I'm not suggesting you let go of Neal, not now. I understand that he needs you, and I fully support that. But perhaps what he needs most of all is for you to live your own life.”

“I can't.” She shook her head. “Not the way you mean. It would only cause more hurt, and he's been hurt so much already.”

“You think that by denying yourself, you'll be giving Neal what he needs?”

“Who said I was denying myself? You're putting words in my mouth. If I gave you the wrong impression tonight, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—” She broke off as Karim, in a lightning move, seized her by the wrist. It wasn't a forcible grip, yet she felt powerless against it. He would respect her wishes, his eyes told her, but he wouldn't play this game of pretend: He knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Lila became aware of the rapid beating of her pulse where his fingers circled her wrist, and she almost confessed it then; she almost voiced what was in her heart. But she couldn't. It would only have reopened the door she was desperately attempting to nail shut. “I have to go.” She slipped her hand from his grasp and rose to her feet. “I have to check on Neal.”

18

For Abigail, the ensuing days were a blur. Between her work, overseeing cleanup from the fire, and moving into her new place, she managed most of the time to stay one step ahead of the inner demon that was in constant pursuit: the awful realization that her daughter had tried to kill herself. Whenever the thought did surface, it was like accidentally grasping hold of a hot pan handle. Then she would remind herself that Phoebe had come out of it alive and that she was in a safe place—she'd regained consciousness the morning after the fire and a week later had been released into the care of Dr. Hugo Ernst of the Dewhurst Psychiatric Facility.

Dr. Ernst had cautioned them not to expect immediate results, likening it to an onion's being peeled one layer at a time. But Abigail was impatient. She wanted to know
why
. What had been so horribly wrong with Phoebe's life that she'd wanted to end it? Until she had answers, there would be no helping Phoebe and certainly no peace of mind for
her
.

In the meantime, she was working on putting her own life together. The place she'd moved into, a furnished townhouse in a new waterfront development near the yacht club, suited her, in an odd way, for precisely the reasons she'd have hated it prior to all this. Its bland anonymity required nothing of her. She didn't have to think (or obsess) about details of decor or lighting. She didn't have to set the stage for her life; it had been set for her, and all she had was a walk-on part. As such, she'd scaled back her public appearances for the time being and had left the day-to-day running of her business to her very capable executive director, Ellen Tsao. Her days were spent, for the most part, dealing with the aftermath of the fire. Filling out forms and meeting with insurance people. Consulting with the architect she'd retained with an eye toward possibly rebuilding Rose Hill. All of it sandwiched between visits with Phoebe, her private sessions with Dr. Ernst, and meetings with Kent and their respective attorneys to hash out the terms of their divorce. (Like having a baby, there was never a good time for a divorce, she'd found.)