In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(118)

“You’re the one who wanted to live with my mother. You were so much happier out there. How could I say no?”

“You could’ve at least pretended to miss me.” Sarge lay down at her feet and sighed, biting down softly so Squeaky Chicken seemed to mew.

“I did miss you,” her mother snapped. “But what good would it have done to tell you that when you were so obviously improving? I hated that f**king stutter. I wanted to kill it for all the trouble it gave you, and when you called home and it was so much easier for you to talk, I couldn’t burst into tears and tell you that I slept in your bed, could I? How would that have helped?”

Emmaline paused. “Did you just drop the F-bomb, Mom?”

“Adopting Angela was a somewhat impulsive decision. I felt like a failure as a mother, so, yes, I tried again. If I’d have known it would hurt you, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Can you give her back?” Em asked.

“What? No! Of course not.”

“It was a joke. I actually love Angela, you know.”

“Oh. Well. That’s good.”

The rushing of the falls was full and lovely. “I love you, too, Mom.”

Nothing. There was no sound from the other end of the phone.

“Are you crying?” Emmaline asked.

“Yes.”

“In a happy way?”

“Yes.”

Emmaline found that she was smiling. “Come and visit, okay? Soon?”

“Okay,” Mom said. There was a pause. “Emmie, I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you with the stutter.”

Em stroked her dog’s soft fur. It had been a very, very long time since her mother had used that nickname. “It wasn’t yours to fix, Mom,” she said. “Besides, it built character.”

Her mother laughed, then blew her nose. “It sure did. No one has more character than you.”

“Not even Flawless Angela?” Em teased.

“Oh, her. She’s so boringly flawless.”

“Except she’s pretty fabulous.”

“Exactly. All right, I’ll let you go.” There was a pause. “Can I call you again tomorrow?” Mom asked.

“You can call me again tonight.”

“Don’t tell Angela I said she was boring. She’s not.”

“I know it was a joke, Mom. Don’t worry.”

When she hung up, she knew where she had to go. “Up and at ’em, Sarge,” she said. “We have places to go, people to see.”

* * *

SHE BROUGHT FLOWERS. Yellow tulips, because nothing seemed more cheerful than that.

They didn’t work of course. Em realized that the second she knocked on the door of Room 405.

“Mrs. Deiner? It’s me, Emmaline Neal. Officer Neal? I was on call the night of the accident.”

Gloria Deiner looked up from where she sat at the side of the bed. “Oh. Hello.” Her voice was flat and quiet.

The Deiners were not particularly popular in Manningsport. They’d moved here six or seven years ago, from what Emmaline had heard. Too rich, too showy. They’d bought a perfectly lovely farmhouse way up on the farming side of the lake, away from the vineyards where the Mennonite farms dotted the land, then torn it down, much to the heartbreak of the former owners. In its place was a garish McMansion with a five-car garage and eight bedrooms, eleven bathrooms, an indoor pool and an outdoor pool, just for the three of them.

From what Em knew (and had heard), Josh was the worst of the spoiled rich-kid cliché—drugs and drinking and sex and the insanely fast car. Trips to Vail and Turks and Caicos and London. His parents would pull him out of school for vacations, sometimes for weeks on end, then throw a hissy fit when he stayed back a grade. Nothing was too good for their boy, who deserved everything just because he’d been born.

Guess the Deiners were rethinking their child-rearing philosophy now.

But the fact that Gloria Deiner was here alone... That was just too sad. “Would you like some company?” Emmaline asked.

“Oh. All right.”

The respirator breathed in...then out. In...then out. A beeping alarm of some kind went off in the next room, then stopped.

Em set the vase of flowers, which now looked obscenely happy, on the windowsill. It was the only arrangement there. She went over to the bed and looked down at Josh.

Oh. Oh.

He looked so small under all that equipment, the tubes and lines and swath of blankets. A downy beard sprung in patches on his face, and his eyes were open a slit but didn’t move. His hands curled in toward his chest, which itself was sunken and thin. His hair was ragged and greasy, and he smelled of body odor and Ivory soap.

“Hi, Josh,” she said, touching his hand. “It’s Emmaline Neal. One of the cops in town.”

“He can’t hear you,” Mrs. Deiner spat. “He’s brain-dead. But I’m praying for a miracle.” Her words were heavy with bitterness, as if she wanted Emmaline to start spouting facts and tell her to accept reality.

In...then out.

It was chilly in here. Em pulled up the blanket a little bit. A Star Wars comforter, probably once much beloved. She swallowed. “Can I sit down?” she asked.

Mrs. Deiner shrugged, so Em sat.

“What was he like when he was little?” Em asked, and the woman’s head jerked back in surprise.