“Breathe,” Joe whispers as we watch Bev calling Emma in from the back garden.
“Oh Joe, she’s lovely,” the words catch in my throat as Emma runs through the kitchen and then she stops short, a few feet away from me.
We look at each other, and neither of us says anything.
“This is your Auntie Lula,” Bev says brightly. “The one I was telling you about. How about I get us some lemonade and we sit under the tree in the back? It’s lovely out there.”
“You don’t look like my mom,” Emma says and I nod.
“I used to look much more like her,” I say, which was and wasn’t true. We shared some similarities but, in fact, we were a study on how two people could share a few features, except one was stunningly beautiful while the other was plain at best.
Emma has inherited the best of her mother and father. She has dark curly hair that she’s wearing in a French braid, an oval face with a little roman nose and large brown eyes. I try to summon the feeling that she’s related to me, but I can’t.
“I used to look more like her,” I say again, “but I was in an accident. The doctors had to give me a new face. I’m still getting used to it too.”
She comes up to me and I kneel down.
“You see these lines,” I point out the railway track scars around my mouth and eyes, “they had to sew me back together.”
Bev swings around as if not approving of such graphic honesty but Emma runs her fingers lightly across my face.
“Did it hurt?” she asks.
“Yes, it hurt very badly,” I tell her. “It still does.”
“Let’s go outside,” Bev says.
“I’ll help you with that,” Joe takes the tray from her.
Emma leads the way, pointing out beans and potato bushes in the sizable vegetable garden.
“We can’t have the big tomatoes,” she says, “because the birds eat them. We have to plant cherry tomatoes instead. I don’t like them as much.”
“They aren’t easy to eat,” I say. “If you bite them wrong, they spray everywhere.”
Emma thinks this is hilarious and Joe shoots me a look like he’s trying to tell me that I am doing well, but I am nearly dead with stress and exhaustion and we haven’t even been there ten minutes.
Emma stops and looks at me, and her gaze isn’t quite as friendly as it was when we first arrived. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything you want to.”
“Why didn’t you come to Mom and Dad’s funeral? There was no one there except for me and the priest and another lady from the police. I didn’t even have Bev. I came to stay here later.”
We sit down on the grass in the shade of a big oak tree and I search for the right words.
“It was very wrong of me,” I say. I know I had lied at the time about having some work emergency, but the truth was that I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge Emma’s existence. I didn’t want to have to reject her in person and it was easier to simply pretend she wasn’t there.
“Since we’re being honest with each other, Emma, I’ll tell you the truth. Before my accident, I wasn’t a nice person.”
“Are you a nice person now?”
“I am nicer than I was,” I say. “And I’m trying very hard. I don’t care about my job like I did before. I care about you and I’m sorry I let you down. I’d like to make it up to you by being a good aunt.”
“Do I have to come and live with you? I like it here.”
“This is your home. But if you guys don’t mind, I’d love to come and visit sometimes and hang out with you and Bev.”
She and Bev noticeably relax when I say this and, truth be told, so do I.
“You can teach me art stuff and gardening,” I tell her. “And do you know something? I haven’t ridden a bicycle since I was fourteen. You’ll have to remind me how.”
Emma laughs. “Who can’t ride a bicycle? That’s funny. Look, I’ll do a handstand. I am one of the best in my class at gym.”
She braces herself and, in that moment, with her little feet neatly placed together, and her hands outstretched, palms facing down, I see that she is my sister’s child. Jan used to stand exactly like that, with the same expression of concentration on her face.
I’m so sorry, Jan, I think and I swallow back tears. I took you for granted. I thought you’d always be around. I never acknowledged your life or your death. I felt like you didn’t need me and so I walked away. But you were my sister and I’m sorry.
Coming face-to-face with the relentless immensity of my selfishness makes it hard to concentrate on Emma but I tell myself this isn’t about me and I clap as she does the perfect handstand.
“Excellent,” I applaud her.
“I’m very good,” she says matter-of-factly. “I am on the school team. Watch, I will do a cartwheel.”
“What was your job, Lula? Before the accident, I mean?” Bev asks.
“I was VP of the copywriting, marketing, and advertising division for a large multi-media company,” I explain and Emma is instantly bored by the turn of conversation and she waves a hand at Bev to interrupt us.
“Can I go and phone Neela? Neela’s my best friend,” she informs me. “She’s dying to hear about you.”
“Ten minutes,” Bev says and Emma rushes off.
“I’m timing you,” Bev calls out. “She and Neela can talk for hours,” she says. “Even after seeing each other every day at school. But I guess we were the same at that age.”
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “I always had my nose in a book. It used to drive Emma’s mother crazy when we were kids. I’ve always been a loner.”
Bev looks at me. “And yet now you want to be a mom?”
“I want to be family to Emma,” I correct her. “I want to be someone she can rely on. I just want her to know that I’m here for her in any way that she wants. Do you think I damaged her?” The question is foremost on my mind and it shoots out before I can stop myself from asking.
Bev shrugs. “Hard to say. She’s got lots of friends at school. Her grades are good, she eats well, she’s happy and energetic. She had nightmares for about six months after she came to live with us and she wet the bed for a while but that stopped. She seems fairly resilient. I keep an eye on her artwork to see if there are any warning signs about low self-esteem or things like that, but, as I say, she appears to be happy. The thing is,” she says and she pauses and puts her hand on her flat belly, “things may change. I’m pregnant. Only six weeks. I have a history of early miscarriages, so please don’t say anything, and Emma doesn’t know about the other attempts. I don’t want her to think I’m trying for a biological baby because she isn’t enough. I love her as much as if I had given birth to her myself, and the last thing I want is for her to feel unwanted in any way. But if I do carry this child to term, then she will feel unsettled and you being a part of her life will help.”
“What about your husband?” I ask, feeling like I am intruding. “Do he and Emma get on well?”
“His name’s Jackson and they get on like a house on fire,” Bev says. “He’s a long-distance trucker, so he’s gone a lot but she loves him and he thinks she’s the bees knees. They like to go fishing together which is incredibly sweet to see.”
“Neela says you sound cool,” Emma comes running back. “Do you want to see my room?”
“I’d love to,” I get up. “Bev said you decorated it yourself?”
“Bev helped, but I did most of it. The colours and everything,” she skips ahead and I follow behind her, leaving Joe and Bev under the tree.
I am reassured by Emma’s room. Her paintings are intricate and far more detailed than I would have imagined and she has a real talent for drawing. The walls of her bedroom are pale green and lilac, and her slatted wooden bedframe is a patchwork of bright colours and patterns.
“I pai
nted it,” she says proudly when she sees me looking. “Jackson said I could use as many colours as I wanted.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “This is a lovely room.”
Half an hour later, Joe and Bev come to find us. “Sorry squirrel,” he says to Emma, “but we need to start heading out.”
“Squirrel!” Emma giggles. “But I wanted to show you our lake before you go.”
“There’s a lake near here?” Joe is surprised. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah and it’s got a really funny name—”
“Let me guess,” I say and my heart flutters like a trapped bird. “It’s called Ecum Secum.”
They stare at me in surprise. “How on earth did you know that,” Bev asks.
“Because she’s a white witch,” Emma says. “With magical powers since her accident. She can move things with her mind.”
“I wish,” I say, smiling at her. “No, I met a woman in … in hospital and she told me there’s a lake near here. I forgot about it until now.”
Joe gives me a funny look. “Well, squirrel, we’ll have to look at it another time, I’m late for work and you don’t want me to get fired now, do you?” He grins at her and Emma shakes her head.
“Will I see you again?” she asks me and there is doubt in her voice.
“Oh honey, yes,” I say. “Absolutely. You’re going to be sick of me in no time.”
“Can I phone you?”
“Maybe Auntie Lula doesn’t like being on the phone,” Bev says remembering what I had said earlier, giving me a way out.
“Bev’s right,” I agree. “I’m not much of a phone person but you can call me anytime, twenty-four seven.”
“Twenty-four seven,” Emma repeats. “Do you have her number?” she asks Bev.
“Her? Who’s her? The cat’s mother? You mean Auntie Lula? Yeah, I do.”
“The cat’s mother,” Emma giggles. “I never know why you say that.”
“Can I have a hug?” I ask, astounding myself.
“Yes.” Emma holds out her arms and I kneel down and hug her and unexpectedly, I am crying. “Oh honey,” I apologize, not wanting to alarm her with my tears. “I’m crying because I’m happy to meet you, that’s all.”
“That’s okay,” Emma says and she pats me on the head. “Adults can be very emotional.”
This has me laughing and blowing my nose at the same time.
“It’s true, we can. Thanks Bev,” I am unsure what to do, shake her hand, hug her or just walk away.
“No prob,” she says and she gives me a quick hug. “It’s all good. Emma and I were a bit nervous too, weren’t we sweetie? But it’s been lovely.”
There doesn’t seem much more to say after that and Joe steers me towards the car.
“You did good, Lulabelle. You tired?”
“Shattered. I could sleep for a week.”
“How’s the pain?”
“Comes and goes,” I say. “But for the most part, it goes, for which I am grateful. Thank you, Joe. I couldn’t have done this by myself.”
“Yeah, you could have,” he is confident. “Give yourself a break. But I’m happy to help out. She’s a great kid. And good old organic Bev’s solid too. Emma really lucked out, trust me.”
He drops me off at my apartment. I need to find a new place to live and I have started packing up. I let Marcello’s mother and her friends come in and raid the place and it was like they had died and gone to heaven.
“Chanel! Dior! Givenchy! Oh my god! Are you for real?”
“Take, take, take,” I told them. “As much as you want. You’re helping me, please, take.”
“If you twist my arm, honey, then trust me, I can take,” Marcello’s mother said and she yelled down the stairs for her son to bring up a big empty box.
But even with their efforts to clean me out, I was left with more than enough stuff to last a lifetime. I had also given a lot to Isabelle/Ella and before our visit, I had thought about making up a gift bag for Bev but I was glad I hadn’t. She wouldn’t have wanted any of it and it would have been entirely the wrong message.
The first thing I did when I got home from the hospital, was settle a score with the sofa on which I was attacked. I wanted to set fire to it and watch it burn but since that wasn’t practical, I slashed it with a Stanley knife and ripped it to shreds. I stabbed it, shouting obscenities and imagining Junior’s face. Marcello hadn’t said a word about the mess and he helped me stuff the foam and torn fabric into garbage bags and he took it all away.
Between that and giving things away, there is more space in my apartment and I love it. Purgatory has cleansed me of my need for stuff.
I only use the TV to check up on the weather and the news. I buy a new phone but I keep my old one, the one with Junior’s numbers on it, if they are still the same, since it might come in handy.
I lie down on my bed to rest for a moment and I fall asleep. I dream that Jan and I are being chased through a dark forest that turns into a snake-infested swamp. There’s a guy coming at us with a machete and he’s gaining ground. It feels so real that when I wake, my clothes are wet and sour with sweat and I pull them off.
I stand under the shower for a long time, with the water as hot as I can bear it. I haven’t wanted to take a bath since I got back from Purgatory and I’m not sure why.
I can’t stop thinking about the guy with the machete. The danger is far from over.
37. REVENGE, PART ONE
AFTER I LEAVE THE HOSPITAL, the second item on my to-do list, after meeting Emma, is to buy a gun. I don’t tell Joe about the gun. I buy a semi-automatic pistol online and my hands are shaking the first time I hold it.
“Here’s how you load it,” the federal firearms license dealer shows me. He works out of a pawn shop downtown and I pick up the gun from him. “Here’s how you hold it.”
“And the silencer?”
“It fits on like this,” he demonstrates.
“I’m afraid of loud noises,” I tell him, feeling the need to explain the silencer but he doesn’t comment. He just hands the gun to me.
“It looks mean,” I say, turning it over in my hand. I feel dizzy for a moment. Me, as a gun-toting femme fatale hadn’t featured on my list of life’s aspirations but then again, I hadn’t envisaged any of the events of the past six months. The gun feels solid and reassuring.
“It’s not a toy,” the guy replies. He never asks me why I want it. “You should go to the shooting range, out by Main Road, and get some practice.”
I take his advice. I am terrified at first, but it hardly takes any time before I am filled with a surge of power that I haven’t felt since Junior and I were the King and Queen of mean.
I aim my gun at the target and I fire, imaging Junior’s face in front of me. I’ve been rendered powerless since the day I was axed by that greaseball slob, but now, with the surgeries complete and my shiny gun to protect me, I’m starting to feel in control again.
The next thing I do is fire up the cheap laptop I bought from the pawnbroker. I have no idea how cyber tracing works but I figure it’s wise to not use my own computer. I set up an account with the email name justiceman6667 and I draft a letter to Dr. Richard Silino. Luck had been on my side the day he gave his email address to a nurse within my hearing.
Silino, I know that you are a drug addict. Heroin, specifically. I also know that you killed a dealer, Foxtrot Four. I am going to ask two things of you:
1. Go to rehab and get clean.
2. Give me the contact details for Healey.
You should know that I could kill you but I am choosing to spare your life for the sake of your children.
If you do not go to rehab, I will inform the police and the hospital authorities of your addiction. If you tip off Healey, I will inform the police and hospital authorities of your addiction.
> I am giving you the opportunity to make things right.
You have six hours to respond, from the time this message leaves my mailbox. If I don’t hear back from you in six hours, I will inform the police and hospital authorities of your addiction.
I sit back. I read the letter a few times and I press send. I would love to make Richard suffer for what he did to Grace but she wouldn’t have wanted that. Richard is a good father, and I have to respect Grace’s wishes.
It doesn’t take long for a reply to appear on the screen:
Who the fuck is this? What do you think you know? You don’t know anything about me.
I was expecting that and I have my reply ready:
You hide your stash in the downstairs washroom in your house. This is not a bluff. Give me your assurance or I will contact the police and the hospital authorities and when I say assurance, I want to see a booking reservation in your name with a recognized clinic. You can say it’s mental exhaustion. No one has to know the real reason but if you don’t cooperate, I will rat you out. And if you think you can rush home and hide your stash, it’s too late. I’ve been in your house, and I’ve got photographs.
The last is a bluff but there’s no way he can know that.
You hide your drugs in a cookie tin, under rolls of toilet paper. And, on the basis of the photographs, I will report you to the police and they will give you a blood test. Now give me Healey’s deets and agree to my deal.
Cyber silence follows and I wonder if I have misjudged him. Or is there any possibility that he can know it’s me? I light a cigarette and wait, smoking in quick drags. This time, the silence is lengthy and finally, ten minutes before his time is up, I receive a message. The message contains a telephone number and a street address for Healey. And, a screenshot confirming that Richard will be checking into a rehab centre in three days’ time.
Satisfied? he asks.
Yes. I reply. But I’m keeping my eye on you.
I wish I could do more. What if he doesn’t go to rehab? What if he relapses afterwards? This part of my payback plan is annoyingly vague but I can’t see another way around it. I had to give the guy a second chance, for Grace and the children’s sake, but Richard deserved to pay for killing Foxtrot Four who, in turn, could have saved Isabelle.
No Fury Like That Page 22
