Body of Ash

by Bonnie Wheeler

  But did Angela want this? Did she want to maintain the image she had crafted for years as Mrs. Brian Jones? All of the effort that went in to pretending she was happy, esteemed, graceful – just so everyone would buy the lie that the Jones family were Christlike. The clothes, the house, the titles – none of it truly brought happiness. Behind her practiced smile was a lonely woman who had isolated her daughter and longed for her husband to be a different man. Taking Martin’s offer would mean keeping up the pretense that the life she had shared with Brian was a blessed one.

  I can’t do it.

  “Thank you Martin, but Rachel and I should be fine,” she said. “I have a nest egg put away. I would rather the church focus on finding a new pastor then worry about us.”

  Pulling free from his hand, Angela shifted towards Rachel. “I’m going to excuse myself to the ladies room. Will you be okay?”

  Circles haunted Rachel’s eyes, but the teen smiled. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute and then you can go sit down for a while.”

  Once in the ladies room, Angela was relieved the row of sinks were unoccupied. Stepping up to the mirror, she inspected her pale reflection. Large hazel eyes stared back at her, looking as shadowed as Rachel’s. Maybe it was the solemn blazer and trousers, maybe it was her difficulty sleeping – either way, she looked much older than a woman of forty-one. Angela’s mother insisted she wear her hair swept back into a French knot and a single row of pearls. It felt wrong selecting clothes to wear to a wake.

  With a quick brush of air carrying a cloud of perfume, Betsy Bunts breezed in. Her love for Shalimar was overwhelming. Brian used to joke the woman smelled like a French whore house, but Angela knew Betsy’s overuse of the fragrance was due to the older woman’s failing sense of smell. The Sunday school teacher’s ability to taste was also going. A sample of Betsy’s famous chili recipe at the last potluck made that clear.

  “You better get back out there. You’ll never believe who just pulled in the driveway.”

  58

  MARGE

  Saturday 4:10 PM

  Gazing outside, Marge wondered how much longer the sheets of rain would fall. The shower drummed against the glass, adding to her melancholy. A single window looked out her room. It wasn’t a surprise it didn’t open. Not that she would be tempted to jump. Somewhere on the fifth floor of an institution, it was the other residents the nurses and orderlies worried about. Sometimes a blank face would wander through her doorway, only to be chased out again. It didn’t take much to set the crazies off. She could hear their screams drifting down the hallway – especially when the med cart made rounds.

  It was the sterility of the place that made Marge cold. Simple white walls and vinyl furnishings were meant to be hassle free. She was given a bed with starched sheets and a single pillow that doubled for a brick. Her room matched all of the others on the floor. The place was uniform – even she blended in to the background. Clothing was simple. She could wear her hospital gown that gave her absolutely no shape, or the elastic pants that were meant to be one size fits all and a t-shirt. No shoes, just socks, even her bra was taken away.

  Marge had been in the hospital a week. At least that was what Melba told her when the dark skinned woman came to clean her room. Always mopping and emptying the trash, the short lady was one of the few faces Marge had grown accustomed to seeing. It may have been a month for all Marge could recall. Days and nights rushed together, leaving a cloud of images but no reference to time. Most days were spent sleeping. Maybe it was stress, maybe it was one of the horse sized pills they insisted she swallow, but grogginess was a constant companion.

  If there was one absolute, it was the constant cold sweats and loss of appetite. Never had she felt so sick. Even the smell of the pathetic food tray with rubber eggs and soggy toast would have her vomiting in the sink. Despite her repulsion, the staff insisted on offering her meals anyway. Her body was going through withdrawal. She didn’t need the doctors to tell her that. Fever, headache, puking up her guts – she had experienced it before. It was the shakes that made her give up in the past, but this time she was being forced.

  Terry Richardson, a longtime friend of Williston’s, had stopped by at one point. Marge had been to the lawyer’s house years ago for a cookout, back when she and Will were still married and Terry’s wife, Beth, had just given birth to their first baby. A short man, barely five and a half feet, Marge could recall him staring at her lounging by his pool. Despite his apparent happy marriage, his eyes were glued to every move she made. The memory of making the man sweat a little more in the July heat was the only reason she agreed to speak to him when the nurses had announced she had a visitor.

  Although Terry treated her like she was a stranger instead of someone he shared ribs and corn on the cob with, the lawyer said her ex-husband paid the retainer fee for his services and that as long as Marge didn’t object, he would defend her in court. But, legal stuff wouldn’t take place until after she dried out. Marge needed to be evaluated as to whether or not she was competent to stand trial. She was still perplexed as to what they thought she had done. Each time she asked, he mentioned terms like psychotic break and manslaughter, but Marge didn’t know what he was saying. Terry kept blathering on and on about her rights and the importance of getting better. After a while, she zoned out and thought about her apartment. The idea of going back there with Brian’s blood on the floor made her sick.

  Although she recalled trying to clean up the mess, the details were hazy. They had been having a good time and were talking about their marriage. Brian had picked a day and was asking her where she thought she might like to go on their honeymoon when he got hurt.

  Did he cut himself with a knife, or was it something else?

  Paramedics put Brian on a stretcher. Her lover had managed to drink himself into quite a stupor and passed out cold. The cops were screaming and refused to listen to a single word she said. Having had a little too much to drink, she got violent, even landing a solid punch into one of the jerk’s faces. From the look of her knuckles, it must have been a good one. The big douchebag wrestled her to the floor and cuffed her. She remembered that. They stuffed her in an ambulance and brought her to the emergency room. Afterwards, her thoughts were fuzzy. Only slight images of white coats holding her down while nurses stuck her with IVs remained.

  Why Brian hadn’t come to visit was beginning to trouble her. Surely he was no longer hung-over. His absence was annoying. Were they to switch places and he was in the hospital, Marge would have sent flowers and a card. Maybe even sneak in for a romantic rendezvous. Wear a trench coat with nothing underneath while claiming to the front desk she was a visitor from church. If she had that much imagination, surely her lover could think of a good surprise.

  It’s probably that damn wife of his again. Angela’s always trying to keep us apart.

  Katie hadn’t come to visit either. Marge figured she was still upset about their argument. The details on that were a bit fuzzy as well. All she could remember was that Katie had colored her hair and blamed Marge for how bad it came out. The girl was like any teen, easily agitated and sensitive. Marge must have said something that set her daughter off, because Katie took her by surprise and smacked her across the face. The force of the blow caused Marge to stumble backwards and she thumped her head on the wall.

  She’s lucky I didn’t hit her back. I would never dream of hitting one of my parents.

  Turning away from the window, Marge strolled back to her bed. The constant scrape in the base of her skull was wearing her down. It was like a pair of Nanna’s knitting needles were chipping at her brain. Whenever she tried concentrating on Brian or Katie, the sensation made it impossible to focus. If she kept pushing it, her body would get all jumpy before breaking out in a pervasive sweat. More than once she soaked right through her clothing.

  Twisting to the door, Marge watched as one of the orderlies entered. Although she couldn’t recall his name, the attractive bla
ck man had been in a few times. With clear brown eyes the color of coffee and a head full of sable curls, there was a familiarity about him Marge found comforting. She liked the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

  He likes what he sees…

  “Ms. Finch,” he greeted, “How are you feeling today?”

  “Okay. Just a little tired,” she replied. Licking her lips, Marge watched as he crossed the room. His body was masculine, with thick defined shoulders. It was nothing for him to lift stacks of clean linens into the closet by the sink. “Are you real busy today?”

  “Never too busy to not stop and see you,” he offered with an easy grin.

  Sitting up straighter, Marge hoped her hair looked nice. All she had been given to maintain her beauty routine was body wash, toothpaste and a single comb. It wasn’t the easiest to work with. Still, she knew her greatest asset was her body. As long as she still had that, men would always come around. Since Brian wasn’t here, Marge needed someone new to focus on. The friendly orderly made for a nice distraction.

  “What did you say your name was again?” she asked, this time allowing a flirtatious tone to enter between them.

  Stopping, he paused, his eyes glancing towards the door. Once ensuring they were alone, he turned back towards her and appraised her body more fully. “You can call me Cliff.” His voice was smooth and velvety, reminding her of chocolate.

  “Well, Cliff, I think you should call me Marge.”

  Glancing at his manicured hands, Marge knew he would be perfect.

  59

  KATIE

  Saturday 4:10 PM

  “It looks like the line is beginning to die down,” Will said, glancing through the rain dotted windshield.

  Katie looked down at her outfit. Her father had taken her to Kohl’s so she could find something appropriate to wear to Brian Jones’s wake. Selecting a simple black pencil skirt and a button-down blouse, she knew it didn’t matter what she wore. Everyone would be staring.

  A week of sleepless nights left Katie exhausted. In the silence of her room, her mind forced her to revisit images of Brian’s death. Dreams, thoughts, flash backs – the events replayed in slow motion. Her dad tried to be a comfort, but their lack of relationship wasn’t easily healed. Even he played his part in her mother’s destruction – they all did.

  As she reached for the door handle, Williston pretended to straighten his tie.

  “You don’t have to come with me. I know it’s hard,” his voice was strained. “I can go in by myself.”

  For a moment she almost agreed – the fear of walking into the sanctuary was suffocating. The one time she asked her father to take her to Lucinda’s for a bite to eat, the diner’s patrons stared at her with hushed comments back and forth until she changed her order to go. The papers mentioned her involvement although not by name. Canaan was a small town. They all knew Katie was Marge’s daughter. Even though her mother was the one who committed the crime, guilt by association was the norm.

  It’s difficult being judged for something you didn’t even do.

  Williston assured her things would get better in time, but Katie had her doubts. No matter how many years would pass, she would still be Katie Elizabeth Finch, from nowhere special Connecticut. Her mother would still be insane and the pastor would still be dead. Brian would be dead everywhere.

  Stealing a glance at her father, Katie shook her head.

  There was one person she needed to talk to. If she failed now to make her amends, she never would. Opening the door, a wintry spray of rain coated her face as she rose to stand. Her ballet flats stepped into a puddle, soaking her feet.

  Nothing about today can be easy.

  Williston appeared at her side, covering them both with an umbrella. “One word from you and we’re out of there. Okay?” he said, his eyebrows forming a V as he studied her.

  “Okay,” she said simply.

  Clutching his elbow, they scurried across the parking lot to the entrance. A few people stood by the door, but Katie avoided making eye contact. Even without meeting faces, she could feel the weight of their stares. She longed to blend in, to follow along without being noticed as the girl who failed to save the preacher from her demon of a mother. But Katie lost that world. Under their watchful gaze, she felt as transparent as an onion skin.

  Williston nodded and said hello as he passed different members of the community. Despite his connection to Marge, so far his reputation didn’t seem affected. Perhaps his decision to distance himself early on was held in his favor. Katie, however, couldn’t escape the correlation, especially since she didn’t stop her mother from pulling the trigger.

  A thin woman with a grey perm in full length rayon approached. From the disapproving tightness of her mouth, Katie knew she wasn’t the welcoming committee.

  “Hello Betsy,” her father greeted.

  Motioning to an alcove with bony hands, she voiced, “Come.”

  Williston sighed. Reaching down to cup Katie’s hand in his, she felt her father’s irritation as he followed behind the woman.

  Did she bathe in perfume?

  Out of the view of others, Betsy wasted no time with pleasantries. “Is this really the time and place to be bringing your daughter here?” With a dramatic wave of her arms, she pointed to the other room. “That family out there has suffered enough. Seeing Katie will only add insult to injury.”

  “My daughter has been through a terrible tragedy, yet she wanted to come and pay her respects to the family. I don’t believe anyone would be troubled by that.”

  “Where have you been? Have you heard about that reputation of hers? Your daughter is no angel. She probably helped her mother lure Pastor Jones into their apartment, just to take advantage of him.”

  The insinuation was like a knife – quick and painful, cutting her to the core.

  I’m guilty of a lot of things, but I wouldn’t do that.

  “Since it was my ex-wife that hurt Pastor Jones, not Katie, I don’t see how it is any business of yours or any other members of New Hope’s congregation.”

  Using his professional tone, Katie couldn’t help but appreciate the ferocity of her father’s defense. Although she valued his need to protect her, the truth was more complicated. Katie did have a reputation – one she hoped to change.

  “Well,” Betsy startled, “I disagree.”

  “I don’t,” a woman’s voice arose from behind.

  Turning, Katie saw both Mrs. Jones and Rachel. The mother and daughter pair stood arm in arm. Jason Thompson and a woman Katie didn’t recognize stayed off to one side watching.

  “Neither do I Mrs. Bunts,” Rachel answered. “I would very much like to see both of them.” Casting her eyes towards Katie, Rachel’s expression softened.

  For a moment, the two just held each other’s gaze. Familiar misery reflected back at her. Raw and gut spilling, their pain bound them together in the cruelest of ways. In a sudden flurry of motion, Rachel moved closer, encompassing Katie with a hug. Her old friend’s body trembled beneath her touch.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Rachel murmured.

  Tears spilled down Katie’s cheeks. She battled with herself, wondering if she should come. Although she feared rejection, she knew she had to try. Casting aside their rivalry and years of regret, Katie wanted to begin this new chapter of her life with honesty and compassion. Hugging Rachel tighter, she knew it was the right decision.

  Now I can tell her what I came here to say.

  Brian’s last words hung between them. His final wish was for his daughter to know that he loved her.

  “There is something I need to tell you,” Katie whispered. “Your dad wanted me to tell you something very important.”

  Without holding back, Katie hoped her words could heal.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This work of fiction would never have come about without the love and encouragement of my family and friends. A special thanks to Jerry, Miranda, Justin, and Bobby for giv
ing me time to write and for encouraging me to follow my dreams. It means everything that you support me. Without you taking the time to laugh with me at the silly things I make my characters do, my writing world would be a lonely one. I love each of you very much. A big thanks to Christopher Mursko for arranging Mr. Ford’s people and to Michele Swanson for being the other Brontë sister. Thanks to my dad, Glen William Ruane Sr., who is more than just a wonderful human being, but a talented writer who inspired me to find my own inner story. His beautiful wife, Karen Ruane, is also in my heart. She and my sister Nancy MacBurnie have always encouraged me to write and I owe them both a big hug for that. Lastly, I wish to thank Davyne Verstandig. Without you, BODY OF ASH would never have come to life. I will forever cherish all you’ve taught me about writing.

  ♣ Praise for Fate Fixed ♣

  “Fate Fixed invigorates the need for more of its kind. It's fierce, it's edgy, and it's brilliant. It's Twilight and Underworld's unstoppable young-adult lovechild - and it's foaming at the mouth.” – Miranda Wheeler, Ricochet Reviews

  “Fate Fixed was a very good start to the series! It was an interesting book with a good plot and captivating characters! I highly recommend it to lovers of young adult paranormal romance books!” – Inga Kupp-Silberg, Me and Reading

  “The connection and romance is beautifully written on a soul level. It was like a beautiful symphony coloring the air. What really makes this book unique is the action that starts about two-thirds and doesn't stop.” – Jody Duffy, My Reading Realm