The memory wrapped Darcy in its cold embrace. She dared her heart to survive the images flooding her mind. The rain coming down in sheets. Her father reaching into the trunk and muttering a complaint. The jack clanging on the wet road before he hoisted it up and walked to the side of the car.
Elizabeth pivoting on her heel to glare at Darcy. Are you planning to help, or not?
“My father began working on the tire,” she continued, a weight of misery pressing down on her. “By then it was pretty obvious I’d had too much to drink. My father knew why I was drunk, and kept his opinion to himself. Elizabeth blew up. When I started climbing into the back seat—I felt woozy—she grabbed my arm. We started arguing. Somehow, we ended up in the road. In the middle of the unlit road, about ten feet behind the car. The rain was pounding the crap out of us, and we just kept shouting at each other. We didn’t argue very often, but she was upset. Really furious that I’d been driving while under the influence.”
“She had a point,” Samson muttered.
“I knew she was right. I just wasn’t used to my younger sister coming down on me so hard.”
“Like you’d switched roles and she’d become the big sister?”
The observation startled her. “Yes, exactly,” she agreed. “It really upset me. When I got tired of her reading me the riot act, I stalked to the berm. I left her standing there.”
A heartbreaking image, carved in Darcy’s memory: Elizabeth shouting, the rain pelting her face. Unaware of death standing close behind.
The pity in Samson’s eyes was unbearable. “Tell me the rest,” he whispered.
Darcy shut her eyes, resisting the memory. The sudden glare of headlights. The pickup rounding the curve, too fast.
“I left her, Samson. She never saw the truck . . .”
The questions Darcy never fully escaped gripped her.
Why didn’t I notice the truck sooner? Or call out a warning? One treacherous moment stood between the family I cherished and the ruined life to follow. In that terrible instant, why didn’t I react?
More excruciating questions followed.
If I hadn’t been drinking—if I’d been alert, in control—could I have reached Elizabeth in time? Pushed her out of the way?
“The guy driving the Ford pickup came around the bend too fast. Lightning quick, like he was in a hurry. He swerved wide, probably because he’d noticed my car and my father’s parked on the berm. The truck skidded toward the hood of my car. My father didn’t have time to react. He was crouched down, working on the flat.” The memory unfolded in stark, terrifying detail. “He was killed instantly. The truck was out of control by then, swerving down the road. Toward Elizabeth . . .”
In agony, Darcy balled up her fists. She pressed them into her eye sockets. She was unable to ward off the memory.
Of five thousand pounds of hurtling steel dragging Elizabeth’s precious, helpless body forty yards down the road.
Chapter 13
Sickened by the memory, Darcy struggled to her feet.
On impulse, she stumbled toward the house. A wave of nausea rolled through her. Fending it off, she took rapid gulps of air. Then she spun around and began running.
She went around the side of the house and ducked into the laundry room door. Samson came in behind her.
“Darcy, it’s okay.” With hasty swipes, he mopped at the sweat on her brow. “Are you dizzy? Tell me what to do.”
“I’m good.”
“Yeah? You’re shaking.”
He followed her into the kitchen. The spotlights above the table were dimmed. On the counter, Latrice’s purse sat waiting for her to finish up for the night.
Darcy attempted a reassuring smile. “I don’t like thinking about that night, much less discussing it,” she admitted. “I guess it shook me up more than I expected.”
“It sure did.”
They walked into the foyer. She heard the soft clattering of dishes being stacked. Latrice, putting away the china in the dining room. A lucky break. Then she detected the low hum of the TV. Hopefully Emerson was watching a show with Rosalind.
“I’m going upstairs,” she said. “Just give me a little while to pull myself together. I’ll come back down when I have.”
“Man, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to explain.”
“Samson, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve just never talked about it before.”
Behind them, Emerson came out of the library. A bad break. Rosalind was watching TV alone.
“Why did you guys take off?” he asked. “I looked for you everywhere.” Gone was the bravado Emerson had displayed while sparring with his grandmother at dinner.
Samson blocked his path. “We’re cool, little man. Give us a sec, okay? We’re talking about something private.”
“Are you talking about Grandmother? Why can’t I hear?” He looked torn between loyalty to Rosalind and curiosity about their private conversation. “She’s not always mean at dinner. I’m sure she’ll act nicer tomorrow.”
“I’m sure she will,” Samson agreed, stalling for time.
Darcy was grateful he’d taken the lead. The prospect of Emerson seeing her this upset sent her gaze up the staircase. She pressed a palm to her neck. Her skin felt clammy. She was about to excuse herself when her nephew darted around Samson.
“Aunt Darcy?” Unable to make sense of her silence, Emerson frowned. “What happened? Did you have another fight with Grandmother? I hate when she fights with you.”
“We didn’t have a fight.” Another tremor shook through her.
“You look cold. You’re shivering.”
“She’s coming down with something,” Samson lied. He cleared his throat before adding, “Darcy, call a doctor in the morning. It could be the flu.”
“Good idea. I’m sure someone can fit me in tomorrow.”
Emerson watched the interplay with ill-concealed suspicion. He knew they were hiding something.
Eyes narrowing, he regarded Samson. “She doesn’t need a doctor. What’s going on? Tell me.”
“Nothing, little man. She’s just feeling poorly.”
“I am,” Darcy agreed.
“You’re lying.” The sweetness fled Emerson’s face, replaced by scorn. “I hate when grown-ups lie. Grandmother lies too.”
Darcy approached, but he stepped out of reach. “Oh, Emerson. I’m sure she doesn’t.” It was a bizarre accusation. Rosalind prized honesty.
They were at an impasse. From the living room, the murmur from the TV switched off. If Rosalind heard the conversation, it would take her all of ten seconds to reach the foyer.
“Everything’s fine. Honest. Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Let’s play Monopoly.” She gestured halfheartedly toward the library. “Why don’t you set the game up? I only need a minute to run upstairs. Then we’ll play until bedtime.”
“You’re crying.”
Panicked, she pressed a palm to her cheek. Her fingers slicked through the dampness.
“Did Grandmother make you cry?” Emerson crossed his arms. “She makes me cry sometimes. I just don’t show it.”
“You shouldn’t hide your feelings. There’s nothing wrong with boys crying.”
“Adults hide their feelings all the time,” he countered. “Why shouldn’t I?”
There was no time to continue the discussion. Darcy’s heart sank as her mother came into the foyer.
“What’s going on in here?” Rosalind frowned at Emerson. “I found Star Wars on Netflix. Aren’t we going to watch together?”
“Not until you tell Aunt Darcy you’re sorry.”
“For heaven’s sake—why do I owe her an apology?”
“You made her cry.” Emerson folded his arms in a disconcerting parody of Rosalind’s stance. “Why can’t you stop being mean? You shouldn’t make her feel bad. You do it all the time.”
Darcy gripped his shoulder. “Sweetie, you’ve got it wrong.” Her words melted away as he shrugged her off.
The interplay put s
uspicion in Rosalind’s eyes. Jaw set, she glared at Darcy. “Oh, I see. Is this a new strategy? Fake tears so my grandson will buy into your falsehoods?”
At the word falsehoods, Emerson’s face lit with fury. “Grandmother, you’re one to talk. You like falsehoods more than anybody.”
“I deplore falsehoods. Did Aunt Darcy put this nonsense in your head?”
“Stop blaming her.” He stomped his foot. “You’re the mean one.”
He sprinted across the foyer and clambered up the staircase.
“Emerson Franklin Goodridge, you are not excused!”
The reprimand caught him on the landing. He gripped the banister. Darcy’s heart went out to him as he turned around. He was a brave little boy. Stiffly, he clomped back down.
A thunderous silence fell between the boy and his grandmother as they faced off. The sound of glass shattering echoed from the dining room. Darcy flinched. Samson began inching behind her for safety.
Latrice rushed into the foyer. “What’s going on? I heard shouting.”
Helplessly, Darcy raised her palms. Rosalind inhaled an impatient breath.
Emerson said, “I call the court to order.”
Chin raised, he brushed past Rosalind. With confident strides, he disappeared into the living room.
Rosalind glanced skyward. “Of all the silly—” Defeated, she swirled long fingers through the air. “Let’s go, ladies. Court is now in session.”
Taking her sweet time, she strolled in after her grandson.
“Well, come on,” Latrice whispered to Darcy.
“What are we doing?”
“Emerson plays a game of pretending he’s a lawyer. It’s how he gets your mother’s undivided attention. They don’t have many serious conversations. He gets one per year.” The housekeeper smiled at Samson. “Why don’t you go upstairs? These court proceedings can get dicey.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Samson darted for the stairwell.
When he was gone, Darcy grabbed Latrice at the threshold to the living room. “My mother only grants Emerson one serious conversation per year?” Grappling for her composure, she wiped the last tears from her face. “That’s all?”
“Rosalind doesn’t like the barrage of questions. They make her testy. Let’s hope your nephew doesn’t keep the court in session for too long.”
Together, they sat down on the couch. Rosalind was already seated in her favorite Queen Anne chair like a smug defendant.
Not smug. Darcy studied her closely. A trace of anxiety inked her mother’s gaze as Emerson began pacing before her. An eight-year-old mimicking a lawyer’s movements, a child collecting his thoughts like pebbles on a riverbank. The scene would’ve struck Darcy as charming if she hadn’t already sensed the doom leaking into the room.
“Grandmother.” Emerson murmured the endearment with the sobriety of King Solomon. “You are under oath.”
“I understand, counselor.”
“Do you promise not to lie?” Resting his palms on the armrests of her chair, he leaned closer. “Or tell falsehoods?”
“I shall only tell the truth.”
A small promise, fragile and frightening. Like the alarm no longer hidden in her mother’s eyes.
I’m not ready, Darcy thought as the alarm, like a contagion, spread to Emerson. He looked ill, the color bleeding from his cheeks.
Blindly, Darcy reached for Latrice’s hand. Together they waited with dread.
Emerson slid his palms up the chair’s armrests. When his fingers grazed Rosalind’s, he asked, “Are you nearing your expiration date?”
“I don’t understand the query. Clarification, please.”
Clarification—a word containing too many syllables. Emerson frowned.
“Please, Grandmother,” he whispered, and his lower lip wobbled.
Rosalind sat transfixed. Her throat worked. Her eyes moved across his face, assessing the fear he failed to mask. The pride she usually carried with ease became a weight around her neck.
“Are you asking if I’m dying?” she said, and her expression collapsed.
Her reply seemed to swallow the light in the room. No one dared to draw a breath. A quiet descended, so chilling that it frosted the room with fear.
Emerson lowered his hands to his sides. His lips quivered, but his back remained arrow-straight.
The heartbreak he failed to conceal sent Darcy’s fist to her mouth. Too late—a sob spilled out.
With bitter clarity, she understood. Emerson hadn’t run away merely to bring her home. He’d sent up a flare, a warning for Darcy to heed.
Rosalind was dying.
Chapter 14
The blue comforter with its swirling pattern of stars was tented high in the center. A frightened boy hid underneath.
Closing the door with a soft click, Darcy hesitated. Some children preferred being left alone when upset. Others welcomed the reassurance of adult company. Leaning against the doorjamb, she watched a tight beam of light waver at the comforter’s edges. A gentle clicking followed. Emerson continued playing whatever game he’d carried into his hiding place.
Once her mother had admitted the truth, he’d dashed from the living room.
She approached the bed. “How are you doing?”
The tented comforter shifted. The fabric stilled.
“Is Grandmother with you?”
“She’s downstairs with Latrice.” Darcy hesitated. “Do you want her to come up?”
“No.” A tense beat, then he asked, “Why are you here?”
“Well, I wanted to check on you. To make sure you’re okay.”
“Do I have to go back down?”
Dread colored the question. The shock of Rosalind’s disclosure would frighten any child. Darcy was frightened too. The news of her mother’s condition left her emotions whipsawing between disbelief and shock. Amyloidosis. A protein disorder. A silent killer building up inside her mother.
There wasn’t a chamber in Darcy’s heart capable of accepting the dire news.
“Oh, honey. No, you don’t have to go downstairs. Actually, it’s better if you hang out in your bedroom. Definitely more fun to be had up here.” She rubbed her running nose. For Emerson’s sake, she needed to keep her emotions in check. “There’s lots of stuff Grandmother needs to explain to me and Latrice. Do you want Samson to come in? He’s in his bedroom.”
“Not really.”
“Mind if I join you, then?”
An indecisive silence. Then, finally, he said, “Okay.”
Turning back the edge of the comforter, Emerson scooted over to make room for her. There was more than enough room for them both on the queen-size bed. Pulling the comforter back over their heads, Darcy followed his cue and sat cross-legged. Emerson handed over the flashlight.
At his knees sat an old-fashioned board game—marble solitaire. But these were no ordinary marbles. The small globes appeared hand-blown, with swirling designs of vibrant color inside the glass. The board of dark, burnished wood looked like an antique.
“Where did you get this?” She ran a finger around the glossy circle of wood.
“Grandmother bought it for me in Germany.”
“She took you to Germany?”
“Last year, for spring break.” Emerson hopped a blue marble over one filled with shimmering waves of gold dust. “She took me to France the year before that.”
“Your mother loved Paris. Grandmother took Elizabeth for her thirteenth birthday.” With misgivings, Darcy recalled the argument when she refused to accompany them. After Rosalind cut Michael out of her life, she refused to take any vacations with her mother. She’d stayed home with her busy father and Latrice. Her father skipped most family vacations due to his thriving medical practice; she’d rarely seen him during that lonely week.
“Next year, I wanted to visit Tokyo.” Emerson placed the gold marble in the ridge at the outer section of the board. “The biggest fish market in the world is in Tokyo.”
“I didn’t know that.”
&
nbsp; “It doesn’t matter now. I guess I can’t take any more vacations with her.”
“I’m sorry, Emerson.”
A shudder went down the delicate curve of his spine. “Why is Grandmother dying?” Sorrow bloomed in his eyes. “She’s not even close to seventy. Tippi is a lot older. Some of Tippi’s friends are in their nineties. They’re very old but they’re not dying.”
“Grandmother has a bad illness. I don’t understand everything yet. I just found out too.” She rested her hand on his knee. “I promise to explain once I have a better picture of what’s going on.”
“What will happen to me . . . after?”
He looked up then, the fear thick in his eyes. Pain gripped her throat. This was a test. Emerson wanted proof he could rely upon her. No matter the heartbreak they must encounter, he needed an assurance they would face it together.
She managed to steady her voice. “If there’s nothing we can do to stop Grandmother’s illness, we’ll go on together. You and I,” she emphasized. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She’s still alive. We shouldn’t give up hope.”
“But she said she’s dying.”
“Yes, and I’m saying I don’t have all the facts about her illness. Not yet. I refuse to believe there’s nothing we can do. Maybe there’s something out there, a medicine or a procedure, that can help. Something she’s overlooked.”
“What if there isn’t, and she dies?”
A reasonable question—one she dreaded. The overload of the evening’s disclosures had left her thoughts disjointed. How could Emerson grasp the possibility of death? She was still dealing with the first stages of shock herself.
“If there’s nothing that can be done, you’ll feel sad for a long time. I will too. But we’ll have each other.”
He eyed her warily. “You’re sure?”
“Emerson, you won’t be alone. That’s a promise. I wish I’d never stayed away for so long, but I’m here now. I’ll stay with you forever.”
The night’s events, too shocking for a child to digest, made trust a difficult proposition. “What if something happens to you?” he asked. “Nobody stays in my life. Everybody leaves.”
The Road She Left Behind Page 16
