On Mystic Lake Part 8

Nick rested his hand on his baton as he cautiously made his way to Sally. She was leaning against the wall now, her torn, stained dress splattered with blood. A jagged cut marred her lower lip, and already a purplish bruise was seeping across her jaw.

He couldn't readily recall how many times he'd been here, how many times he'd stopped Chuck from killing his wife. It was a bad situation, this marriage, and had been long before Chuck got laid off at the mill, but since then, it had become a nightmare. Chuck spent all day at Zoe's Tavern, sucking down beers he couldn't afford and getting mad. By the time he crawled off his bar stool and made his stumbling way home, he was as mean as a junkyard dog, and when he pulled his broken-down pickup into his driveway, he was ready to do some serious damage. The only one around was his wife.

Nick touched Sally's shoulder.

She made a gasping sound and cringed. "Don't-"

"Sally, it's me. Nick Delacroix."

She slowly opened her eyes, and when she did, he saw the bottomless well of her despair, and her shame. She brought a shaking, bruised hand to her face and tried to push the blood-matted hair from her face. Tears welled in her blackened eyes and streaked down her battered cheeks. "Oh, Nick . . . Did the Robertses call you guys again?" She edged away from him and straightened, trying to look normal and in control. "It's nothing, really. Chuckie just had a bad day, is all. The paper company isn't looking for any employees. . . ."

Nick sighed. "You can't keep doing this, Sally. One of these days he's going to kill you."

She tried to smile. It was a wobbly, unbalanced failure, and it tore at Nick's heart. As always, Sally made him think of his mother, and all the excuses she'd made for alcohol over the years. "Oh, no, not my Chuckie. He gets a little frustrated, is all."

"I'm going to take Chuck in this time, Sally. I want you to make a complaint."

Chuck lurched from his place at the corner, stumbling into the bed. "She won't do that to me, w.i.l.l.ya, honey? She knows I don't mean nothing by it. It's just that she makes me so d.a.m.ned mad sometimes. There wasn't nothin' in the whole house to eat when I got home. A man needs needs somethin' to eat, ain't that right, Nick?" somethin' to eat, ain't that right, Nick?"

Sally glanced worriedly at her husband. "I'm sorry, Chuckie. I didn't expect you home s'early."

Defeat rounded Nick's shoulders and washed through him in a cold wave. "Let me help you, Sally," he said softly, leaning toward her.

She patted his forearm. "I don't need no help, Nick. But thanks for comin' by."

Nick stood there, staring down at her. She seemed to be shrinking before his eyes, losing weight. The ragged cut of her cotton dress was too big for her; it hung off her narrow shoulders and lay limply against her body. He knew as certainly as he knew his own name that one day he would answer one of these calls and Sally would be dead. "Sally-"

"Please, Nick," she said, her voice trembling, her eyes filling with tears. "Please, don't . . ."

Nick turned away from her. There was nothing he could do to help her. The realization caused an ache deep inside him, and left him wondering why in the h.e.l.l he did this job. There was no success, or d.a.m.ned little of it. He couldn't do much of anything to Chuck unless Chuck killed his wife, and of course, then it would be too late.

He stepped over an upended laundry basket and took hold of Chuck's collar. "Come on, Chuck. You can sleep it off downtown."

He ignored Chuck's whining and refused to look at Sally again. He didn't need to. Sally would be following along behind them, whispering words of apology to the husband who'd broken her bones, promising to be "better" when he came home, vowing to have dinner on the table on time.

It didn't sicken Nick, her behavior. Unfortunately, he understood Sally. He had been like her in his youth, had followed his mother around like a hungry dog, begging for sc.r.a.ps of affection, taking whatever affection she would occasionally fling his way.

Yes, he understood too well why Sally stayed with Chuck. And he knew, too, that it would end badly for both of them. But there was nothing he could do to help them. Not a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing except to throw Chuck in jail to sleep off his drunk, and wait for the next domestic disturbance call on Old Mill Road.

Izzy Delacroix lay curled in a tight little ball on Lurlene's guest bed. The pillow didn't smell right-not the right smell at all. That was one of the things that made Izzy cry almost every night. Since her mommy went to Heaven, nothing smelled right, not the sheets or the pillows or Izzy's clothes.

Even Miss Jemmie didn't smell like she was s'posed to. Izzy clutched the doll to her chest, stroking her pretty yellow hair with the two fingers she had left on her right hand, her thumb and pointy finger.

At first it had sorta scared her, when she'd figured out that she was disappearing. She'd started to reach for a crayon, and halfway there, she'd noticed that her pinky finger was sort of blurry and gray. The next day it was invisible. She had told her daddy and Lurlene, and she could tell by the way they looked at her that it scared them, too. And that icky doctor-it had made him look at her like she was a bug.

She stared at the two fingers that remained on her right hand. It's goin'away, Mommy.

She waited for an answer, but none came. Lots of times, she imagined her mommy was right beside her, and she could talk to her just by thinking the words.

She wished she could make it happen right now, but it only seemed to happen at special times-at the purply time between day and night.

She needed to talk to her mommy about what had happened the other day. It had been so bad. One minute, she'd been looking at the pictures in her book, and the next thing she knew, there was a scream inside her. She knew it wasn't good to scream in school-the other kids already thought she was stupid-and she'd tried really, really hard to keep her mouth shut. She'd clenched her hands into tight b.a.l.l.s and squeezed her eyes shut so hard she'd seen stars in the darkness.

She had felt so scared and so lonely she couldn't breathe right. The scream had started as a little yelp that slipped out. She had clamped a hand over her mouth but it hadn't helped.

All the kids had stared at her, pointing and laughing.

And the scream had come out. Loud, louder, loudest. She'd clamped her hands over her ears so she couldn't hear it. She'd known she was crying, but she hadn't been able to stop that, either.

The teacher had grabbed Izzy's gloved hand, squeezing around all that nothingness. It had made Izzy scream harder that she couldn't feel anything.

"Oh, pumpkin, it's not invisible," Mrs. Brown had said softly; then she'd gently taken Izzy's other hand and led her down the hallway.

And the scream had gone on and on and on.

She had screamed all the way down the hall and into the princ.i.p.al's office. She had seen the way the grown-ups looked at her-like she was crazy-but she couldn't help herself. All she knew was that she was disappearing, one finger at a time, and no one seemed to care.

As quickly as the scream had come, it went away. It left her shaken and weird-feeling, standing in the middle of the princ.i.p.al's office, with everyone staring at her.

She had inched her way into the corner, wedged herself between a yucky green sofa and the window. The grownups' voices kept going, talking about her, whispering. . . .

Everyone cared about why she didn't talk anymore, that's all. That Dr. Schwaabe, all he cared about was why she didn't talk, and Izzy heard Lurlene and Buddy. They acted like she couldn't hear because she didn't talk. Lurlene called her "poor little thing" all the time-and every time she said it, Izzy remembered the bad thing, and she wished Lurlene would stop.

Then, like a knight out of one of Mommy's fairy tales, her daddy had walked into the princ.i.p.al's office. The grown-ups shut up instantly, moved aside.

He wouldn't have come to the school if she hadn't started screaming, and for a second, she was glad she'd screamed. Even if it made her a bad girl, she was glad to have her daddy here.

She wanted to throw herself in his arms, say, Hi, Daddy, Hi, Daddy, in that voice she used to have, but he looked so sad she couldn't move. in that voice she used to have, but he looked so sad she couldn't move.

He was so handsome; even since his hair had changed color after the bad thing, he was still the most handsome man in the world. She remembered what his laugh used to sound like, how it used to make her giggle right along with him. . . .

But he wasn't really her daddy anymore. He never read her stories at night anymore, and he didn't throw her up in his arms until she laughed. And sometimes at night his breath smelled all mediciney and he walked like one of her wobbly toys.

"Izzy?" He said her name softly, moving toward her.

For one heart-stopping minute, she thought he was going to touch her. She wormed her way out from the corner and baby-stepped his way. She leaned toward him, just a little teeny bit, but enough so maybe he'd see how much she needed him.

He gave a sharp sigh and turned back to face the grown-ups. "What's going on here, Bob?"

Izzy almost wished for the scream to come back, but all she felt was that stinging quiet, and when she looked down, another finger was gone. All she could see on her right hand was her thumb and pointy finger.

The grown-ups talked a bunch more, saying things that she wasn't listening to. Then Daddy went away, and Izzy went home with Lurlene. Again.

"Izzy, sweetheart, are you in there?"

She heard Lurlene's voice, coming through the closed bedroom door. "Come on out, Izzy. There's someone I want you to meet."

Izzy wanted to pretend she hadn't heard, but she knew there wasn't any point. She just hoped Lurlene wasn't going to give her another bath-she always used water that was way too cold and got soap in Izzy's eyes.

She sighed. Miss Jemmie, we gotta go. Miss Jemmie, we gotta go.

She clutched the doll with her good arm and rolled out of bed. As she walked past the vanity, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A short, skinny girl with dirty black hair and one arm. Her eyes were still puffy from all that crying.

Mommy never let her look like this.

The bedroom door swung open. Lurlene stood in the opening, her big feet smacked together, her body bent at the waist. "Good morning, sweetheart." She reached out and tucked a tangled chunk of hair behind Izzy's ear.

Izzy stared up at her.

"Come on, pumpkin."

Wordlessly, Izzy followed her down the hallway.

Annie stood in the entryway of Lurlene and Buddy's triple-wide mobile home, on a patch of pink carpet.

Lurlene's husband, Buddy-nice ta meetcha-sat sprawled in a burgundy velour Barcalounger, with his feet elevated, a Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated open on his chest, his right hand curled around a can of Miller. He was watching Annie carefully. open on his chest, his right hand curled around a can of Miller. He was watching Annie carefully.

She s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot, trying not to think about the fact that she wasn't a psychiatrist, or that the child's trauma was a dark and bottomless well, or that Annie herself was lost.

She knew that love was important-maybe the most most important thing-but she'd learned in the past weeks that it wasn't a magic elixir. Even Annie wasn't naive enough to believe that every problem could be solved by coating it in love. Some pain couldn't be a.s.suaged, some traumas couldn't be overcome. She'd known that since the day her own mother had died. important thing-but she'd learned in the past weeks that it wasn't a magic elixir. Even Annie wasn't naive enough to believe that every problem could be solved by coating it in love. Some pain couldn't be a.s.suaged, some traumas couldn't be overcome. She'd known that since the day her own mother had died.

"Nick ain't comin'. Did Lurlene tell you that?"

Annie frowned and glanced at Buddy. "Oh. No. I didn't know."

"He don't never show up when it matters." He took a long slug of beer, eyeing Annie above the can's dented rim. "You're taking on a h.e.l.l of a job, you know. That Izzy's as unscrewed as a b.u.m valve."

"Nick told me she hasn't spoken in a while, and about the . . . you know . . . disappearing fingers."

"That ain't the half of it. She's got the kind of pain that sucks innocent bystanders under and drowns 'em."

In other words: you're out of your depth here, city girl. you're out of your depth here, city girl. Annie knew how she must appear to him, with her cheap jeans that still showed the manufacturer's creases and the tennis shoes that were as white as new-fallen snow. She went to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, but there was no hair there. Embarra.s.sed, she forced a smile. "That rain yesterday hurried spring right along. Why, at my dad's house, the daffodils are busting out all over. I thought maybe-" Annie knew how she must appear to him, with her cheap jeans that still showed the manufacturer's creases and the tennis shoes that were as white as new-fallen snow. She went to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, but there was no hair there. Embarra.s.sed, she forced a smile. "That rain yesterday hurried spring right along. Why, at my dad's house, the daffodils are busting out all over. I thought maybe-"

"Annie?"

It was Lurlene's voice this time. Annie slowly turned.

Lurlene appeared at the end of the hallway, clad in a neon-green sweater and a pair of skintight purple faux snakeskin leggings. She clashed with everything in the house.

A child hung close to her side, a small girl with big brown eyes and hair the color of night. She was wearing a too-small pink dress that had seen better days. Her thin legs stuck out from the hemline like twin beanpoles. Mismatched socks- one pink, one yellow-hugged her ankles and disappeared into a pair of dirty Beauty and the Beast tennis shoes.

A little girl. Not an a.s.sortment of psychological problems or a trauma victim or a disciplinary problem. Just a plain, ordinary little girl who missed her mother.

Annie smiled. Maybe she didn't know about traumatic muteness and how the doctors and books and specialists thought it should be treated. But she knew about being afraid, and she knew about mothers who disappeared one day and never came back.

Slowly, with her hand out, she moved toward the girl. "Hey, Izzy," she said softly.

Izzy didn't answer; Annie hadn't expected her to. She figured Izzy would talk in her own sweet time. Until then, Annie was just going to act as if everything were normal. And maybe, after what Izzy had been through, silence was the most normal thing in the world.

"I'm Annalise, but that's a mouthful, isn't it. You can call me Annie." She kneeled down in front of the little girl, staring into the biggest, saddest brown eyes she'd ever seen. "I was a good friend of your mommy's."

A response flickered in Izzy's eyes.

Annie took it as encouragement. "I met your mom on the first day of kindergarten." She smiled at Izzy, then stood and turned to Lurlene. "Is she ready to go?"

Lurlene shrugged, then whispered, "Who knows? Poor thing." She bent down. "You remember what we talked about. Miss Annie's goin' to be takin' care of you for a while, durin' your daddy's work hours. You be a good girl for her, y'hear?"

"She most certainly does not not have to be a good girl," Annie said, winking at Izzy. "She can be whatever she wants." have to be a good girl," Annie said, winking at Izzy. "She can be whatever she wants."

Izzy's eyes widened.

"Oh." Lurlene pushed to her feet and smiled at Annie. "G.o.d bless you for doing this."

"Believe me, Lurlene, this is as much for me as anyone. See you later."

Annie looked down at Izzy. "Well, Izzy. Let's. .h.i.t the road. I'm positively dying to see your bedroom. I'll bet you have all kinds of great toys. I love love playing Barbies." She led the way to the car, settled Izzy in the front seat, and clicked the seat belt in place. playing Barbies." She led the way to the car, settled Izzy in the front seat, and clicked the seat belt in place.

Izzy sat in the pa.s.senger seat, strapped tightly in place, her head tilted to one side like a baby bird's, her gaze fixed on the window.

Annie started the car and backed out of the driveway, steering carefully past a crowd of ceramic gnomes. She kept talking as she drove, all the way past the Quinault Indian reservation, past the roadside stalls that sold smoked salmon and fresh crabs, past a dozen empty fireworks stands. She talked about anything and everything- the importance of old-growth trees, the viability of mime as an art form, the best colors, her favorite movies, the Girl Scout camp she and Kathy had gone to and the s'mores they'd made at the fire-and through it all, Izzy stared and stared.

As Annie followed the winding lake road through towering trees, she felt as if she were going back in time. This rutted, gravel road, s.p.a.ckled now with bits of shade, seemed a direct route to yesterday. When they reached the end of the road, Annie found herself unable to move. She sat behind the wheel of the car and stared at the old Beauregard place. Nick's home, now.

I'm going to own this house someday.

It had sounded like a silly dream to Annie then, all those years ago, a bit of gla.s.s spun in a young man's hand. Something to say on a starlit night before he found the courage to lean down and kiss the girl at his side.

Now, of course, she saw the magic in it, and it cut a tiny wound in her heart. Had she even had had a dream at that tender age? If so, she couldn't remember it. a dream at that tender age? If so, she couldn't remember it.

She pulled into the gravel driveway and parked next to the woodpile. The house sat primly in the clearing before her. Sunlight, as pale and watery as old chicken broth, painted the tips of the lush green gra.s.s and illuminated the daffodil-yellow paint on the clapboard siding. It still looked forlorn and forgotten, this grande dame of a Victorian house. In places the paint was peeling. Some of the s.h.i.+ngles had fallen from the gabled roof, and the rhododendrons were crying out to be cut back.

"I'll bet that used to be a fort," Annie said, spying the broken boards of a treehouse through the branches of a dormant alder. "Your mom and I used to have a girls-only for-"

Izzy's seat belt unhooked with a harsh click. The metal fastener cracked against the gla.s.s. She opened the door and ran toward the lake, skidding to a stop at a picket-fenced area beneath a huge, moss-furred old maple tree.

Annie followed Izzy across the squishy lawn and stood beside the child. Within the aged white fence lay a beautiful square of ground that wasn't nearly as wild and overgrown as everything else on the property. "This was your mom's garden," she said softly.

Izzy remained motionless, her head down.

"Gardens are very special places, aren't they? They aren't like people . . . their roots grow strong and deep into the soil, and if you're patient and you care and you keep working, they come back."

Izzy turned slowly, tilted her head, and looked up at Annie.

"We can save this garden, Izzy. Would you like that?"

Very slowly, Izzy reached forward. Her thumb and forefinger closed around the dead stem of a shasta daisy. She pulled so hard it came out by the roots.

Then she handed it to Annie.