Whisper Me This(88)

“Come on, Betty,” Tony says, and his smile is an act of courage. “There’s no rule that says we can’t be friends.”





Leah’s Journal

Boots showed up two days later, sleek and well rested and sorry. He brought grocery-store flowers. He brought me a bloody steak and held it to my cheek with his own hands.

“Poor Leah,” he said. “Please don’t do that again. I hate it when I hurt you.” He had tears in his eyes as he said it.

In my mind, I still had all kinds of sass. Don’t do what again? Get exhausted? Ask you for help? But I’d been tamed. My head hurt and the fatigue was something that mired my brain and soul in a gray fog that promised to last forever.

You will not understand this, Walter. I’m not sure that I do. But looking back at the next little space of time, Boots was my bright spot. He was still such a beautiful man. I think, twisted as it is, I came to see him as some sort of angel of mercy. Patient with my weakness. Helping me with the tasks I was incapable of performing on my own. Staying with me, even though my belly was scarred and my breasts leaked milk. Despite the baby weight I hadn’t lost and my inability to do anything other than tend to the little ones and sit, blank and doing nothing, or sleep.

There was a constant litany of this. His voice a patter of toxic rain. “Not that it’s your fault,” he would say, “but it’s a pity about those scars. Good thing you have a man who loves you anyway.” That sort of thing. Always in my head, and me so tired and already believing I was ugly and ruined.

I loved him then, more than I had loved him before. Clung to him. Forgot about leaving him.

Even when he hit me again.





Chapter Twenty-Six

We can’t exactly troop up to Marley’s door and demand an audience, so we go the concert route again. It’s not like she’ll stomp off stage in the middle of a set when she sees us all sitting there.

Probably.

Maybe.

Mia and Elle together are an organizational force the military would be lucky to have. It takes them about five minutes to collect intel on Marley’s upcoming gigs and to announce that we will be dining at the Emerald of Siam in Richland tomorrow night, where we will be treated to Marley’s band once again.

They also locate her unlisted home address and that of her boyfriend. I know I should chastise my daughter for this stalker behavior, which goes far beyond the bounds of either family reunions or healthy fandoms, but I’m too wilted and weary to even try.

Dad has fallen asleep in a recliner in the living room, feet up, head tipped back, snoring. I’m jealous. It’s been days since I’ve had any restful sleep, and I have no idea when, or if, it will be safe to go home tonight. I certainly don’t have the energy to drive to Richland, although between Mia and Tony I’m pretty sure we can make it.

And so I sit there, half in, half out of reality, letting the conversation swirl around me and not really paying attention. When my phone goes off, it startles me half out of my chair. It’s a local number, not Greg, and I manage to fumble it on just before it goes to voicemail.

“Hi, this is Karen Porter with Frontier Realty. How are you this evening?”

Tired, I want to tell her. Fucking tired. Heartsick. Despairing, maybe. Not in the mood for telemarketers.

“Look, I don’t know how—”

“Greg gave me your number. He said he’d tell you I would be calling. Is this not a good time?”

I catch my breath, rein in my galloping heart. “A good time for what, exactly?”

“I’ve already driven by your father’s property. Such a lovely home. I’m sure you’re both sad about him having to leave it, but that’s what happens when we get old!”

Far from sounding sad, she sounds as chirpy as the first robin with the very first worm. I don’t have the energy for chirpy. “The house isn’t for sale.”

“Oh, are you sure? Greg said—”

“It’s not Greg’s house to sell. We’re not selling.”

I can almost hear her brain cells regrouping on the other end of the line. “Such a misunderstanding, then. I’m terribly sorry. Why don’t I give you my number, and that way if you ever decide—”

I just click End and sit there, staring at my phone, daring it to ring again, this time with a psychological evaluation company offering door-to-door service. Greg has apparently made good use of his waiting time.

An idea comes to me about how to make good use of mine. Greg’s wife and I need to have a little chat.

I excuse myself and step out onto the deck. Linda’s voice on the other end of the line sends a fortifying bolt of adrenaline blasting through me. All sensors go, Captain. Weapon systems armed and ready.

“Maisey. What happened? Is Greg okay?”

“How many times has he hit Elle?”

“Oh,” she says.

“How many times, Linda?”

A long silence unfolds. “He said he’s bringing her back with him,” she says finally, avoiding my question altogether.

“No. He’s not.” I bite each word off and spit it out. “Answer me, Linda. If you can’t protect her, at least you can tell me the truth.”

“She antagonizes him, sometimes. He corrects her. A father has a right to discipline his child.”