Beneath Devil's Bridge(46)

I go to change the baby. In the room I see a pacifier on a table alongside the changing pad, and a packet of disposable diapers. I lay the infant down on the changing pad and place the pacifier in her mouth. She quiets and starts sucking intently. Her big watery eyes with wet lashes fix on me.

I smile. “There you go. You just need a change and something in your tummy, I bet.”

Little sucking noises ensue. The baby’s gaze remains locked on my face. I reach for a fresh diaper and start changing little Janie.

I note the crucifix hanging above the crib. It’s the sole piece of decor on the walls. Lacey is religious? I’d never have guessed this about her husband. But then, why should I have?

“There you go, sweetie,” I whisper. “I’m surprised I still remember how to do this, you know that?”

Janie makes a noise. I smile again. And I wonder if I will ever have grandchildren of my own, which turns my thoughts to my daughter. Worry rears back up inside me. As I strap the fresh diaper onto baby Janie, her chubby legs kicking, I wonder about motherhood, and just how far we mothers might go to protect our babies. Our children. Our teens. Our grandbabies. Our families.

I pick Janie up and snuggle her close, stealing a moment of babyness. As I do, I hear Luke say in the next room, “Do you recall what you were doing on the night of November fourteenth, Mrs. Pelley?”

“One day runs into another. They all seem the same at the moment. I don’t get out, so I was here.”

“It was the night of the Russian satellite.”

“Oh . . . I . . . Yeah. I remember that day. Janie had colic. She was screaming nearly all day.”

I enter the living room with Janie.

Clay’s wife is not a heck of a lot older than some of the kids at Twin Falls Secondary. I figure she’s around twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, young enough to be at bonfires herself, doing hedonistic dances, making sacrifices to snow gods, waxing her skis, or prepping her snowboard or mountain bike. But here she sits while her husband hangs out with the youth. And worse.

All I know about the Pelleys is that Clay married Lacey in Terrace, a small community farther north in BC. He was teaching at a school there, met his wife there, and Lacey was heavily pregnant when Clay took the new guidance counselor position at Twin Falls Secondary. Janie was born soon after at the Twin Falls hospital. I know that Clay has degrees in psychology and English literature. He’s sporty and apparently loves the outdoors. But I know very little about his wife.

I begin to wonder if she was ever a student of his.

Lacey doesn’t bother to look my way as I take a seat with Janie on the chair near the sofa.

“Did you see the rocket, Lacey?” Luke is using a gentle, avuncular tone.

“No.” She wipes her forehead. For a moment she looks as though she’s going to cry. Clearly she’s struggling to hold a myriad of emotions down under an exhausted, fragile facade of control.

“How about your husband? Did he see it? Was he home?”

Her eyes widen slightly, as if it’s hitting hard and fast for the first time why we might really be here. Her gaze darts around the room, as if searching for the correct response.

“He . . . Clay called from the school to say he was meeting a friend for a catch-up. A drink. Before coming home.”

“A catch-up where?” Luke asks.

“The Raven’s Roost.”

I know the pub. It’s owned by Rex Galloway, Eileen’s husband, Beth’s father. It’s a bit of a biker hangout. Rex loves his Harley and the lifestyle that goes with it.

“Which friend?” Luke asks.

“An old friend from the university. Clay went to UBC. He got his degree there. He said he was seeing a guy from the psych department. He didn’t give a name.”

“What time did your husband arrive home, then, Mrs. Pelley?”

She hesitates. “What did he say . . . Have you spoken to him?”

“Can you just answer the question, Lacey?” Luke says.

Now she looks nervous. “I . . .” She swallows, flicks a glance at me. “It was late.” She rubs her knee.

“How late?” asks Luke, patience still steady in his tone.

“Late, like . . .” Her voice comes out strangled, hoarse, as if reality has suddenly gotten its grip and is digging fingers into her throat. “Early morning. Like 3:42 a.m. He . . . stumbled into the bedroom.” With a shaking hand she swipes tears that begin rolling down her face.

“That’s a very precise time, Lacey,” I say.

“I was watching the clock. I was lying awake. I noted it. I . . . I planned to confront him about it the next day. So I made a point of remembering.”

“He was stumbling, as in drunk?” asks Luke.

Mouth tight, she nods. “He drinks a lot.”

I think of the recycling bin in the mudroom.

She inhales a shuddering breath. “I . . . I’m trying to keep up the breastfeeding, but it’s not working.” Another swipe at her tears. “But I haven’t had a drink since I fell pregnant. And he . . . still . . . he . . . he drinks to pass out. Every night. Every. Single. Night. Blackout drunk. He doesn’t remember things he said to me after a certain point in the evening, or what he did once he’s consumed a certain quantity. Although he can seem okay at the time, he doesn’t recall things. Sometimes he goes out to his shed and comes back inside in the dark hours of the morning.”