Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(12)
“You and the girls are welcome to stay out there if you want.”
“Thanks, Heather, that’s sweet of you, but…”
But I just can’t go back there yet. Or maybe ever again.
Only last fall, after her life had been destroyed, had she found out that Garvey hadn’t come to the Hamptons that weekend because he missed her and the girls; he was there to establish an alibi for one of the murders he’d engineered.
How could she not have known? All those years, he had her fooled.
Not just me. The whole world. What if he’d won the election, become governor of New York?
Not that he’d have been the first duplicitous politician in that role, but…
“How about coming with us to France, Marin?”
“Heather, you know I would never horn in on—”
“Believe me, you wouldn’t be horning in. Ron golfs all day, every day there—same as here. You could keep me company. We’ll shop, and drink good wine, and sun ourselves on the boat…”
Ah, the “boat”: a hundred-foot luxury yacht kept moored on the French Riviera.
“It sounds great, but what about the girls?”
Heather hesitates just long enough for Marin to realize they weren’t included in the invite.
“Maybe you could leave them here with someone.”
Someone. Like whom? Henry the doorman? The cleaning service ladies?
Anyway, she can barely leave the apartment these days. How is she supposed to get on a plane and fly to Europe?
“Thanks, Heather, I really appreciate the invite, but I have a lot to do around here, and I can’t be away from the kids right now.”
They’re all I have left.
“Then bring them along. I’m sure there’d be things for them to do.”
“You’re sweet, but we’ll be fine here. Really.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Marin lies, trying to remember the last time she felt sure of anything at all.
Chinese checkers, potholder weaving, a book of brain teasers, TV…
Trying to keep Renny occupied, Elsa has pretty much exhausted the contents of the special rainy day toy bin she keeps filled with games, puzzles, craft kits, and art supplies. And it isn’t even raining. Far from it: Beyond the living room picture window, a glorious day beckons.
Renny, sitting on the couch in the next room watching The Little Mermaid, wants no part of it.
“What do you want me to do? Drag her out the door?” Elsa whispers to Brett, on the phone from work. He’s called several times to check on her.
She wanted to ask why he even bothered to go in if he’s so worried about them—but she knows he had little choice. He’s worried about losing his job, with good reason. His boss, Lew—a three-times divorced, childless workaholic—hasn’t exactly been thrilled with the many personal days Brett’s had to take since he got involved with foster parenting and brought Renny home.
“Maybe you can get her to go out if you promise her something fun.”
“Like what? Disney World?” Elsa sorts a handful of Crayolas back into their cardboard slots. “Because we already promised her that, remember?”
“I remember. Why don’t you take her to the seaport? She loves that.”
“I already tried. She’s not interested. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to force her to go out, do you?”
“If she doesn’t confront her fear, it might snowball, and she’ll end up…I don’t know, agoraphobic or something.”
“Brett…come on.” Elsa dumps the crayon box back into the rainy day bin. “Think about that. Renny?”
Renny, who has the opposite problem?
According to her psychiatric evaluation, the little girl’s claustrophobia is a result of being locked away for hours at a time by her birth mother. Paulette Almeida suffered from schizophrenia and was ridden with delusions—including one that her small daughter was a ferocious jungle animal who had escaped its cage and was trying to kill her. She would corral a desperate Renny into a closet and keep her there until someone—usually Renny’s father, Paulette’s deadbeat boyfriend, Leon—came along.
Presumably it went on for years before a suspicious new neighbor reported the situation to the authorities.
“I never laid a hand on her,” Paulette Almeida reportedly told Michelle, the social worker who handled the case before it was turned over to a woman named Peggy, who came before Roxanne.
No, Renny’s birth mother didn’t inflict the brand of torture that leaves telltale marks that can be seen by would-be rescuers. The child’s wounds are hidden on the inside.
Once in a while, Elsa glimpses evidence of those emotional scars, but for the most part, Renny’s been doing so well. She’s no happy-go-lucky first grader, but she does laugh more than she used to, and Elsa actually saw her skipping down the hall to her room the other day. She even overcame her shyness enough to make a friend at her new school.
Please don’t let there be setbacks now.
“I just don’t like this, Elsa,” Brett tells her.
“I don’t, either, but we both know she’s been through a lot worse than spending a summer day indoors.”
“But she shouldn’t be afraid to go outside. Why don’t you just take her outside and show her that there’s nothing to be afraid of?”