Matters of Faith

by Kristy Kiernan

  A coffeepot was already filling, and she grabbed mugs from open shelves and brought them to the table, quickly followed by cream and sugar. Instead of sitting down, she started pulling things out of the old refrigerator, got the pans filled with something, and timed it all exactly so that she was done when the coffeepot was finished.

  “Okay,” she said, as she settled herself into the chair closest to the kitchen, and poured coffee for all of them as Marshall and Ada sat in chairs on either side of her. “I don’t imagine you children showed up here before daylight because you just wanted to visit. So let’s have it. What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “No trouble—”

  “You pregnant?” she asked, turning to Ada with a frown.

  Ada shook her head vehemently. “No, oh no.”

  “This have anything to do with those legs?”

  “No, Grandmother Tobias, no, she just fell on the boat,” Marshall protested. “We just . . . wanted to get away for a little while and thought we’d come for a visit. Mom and Dad—”

  “Your daddy doesn’t know you’re here,” she said flatly, a statement, not a question.

  “No,” he said.

  “Well, I hope you don’t think you can come here and shack up,” she said. “I want you here, but the two of you can’t stay together.”

  “Of course not,” Ada said quickly. “We never thought that.”

  “What about school?” she asked. “You didn’t leave school?”

  He shook his head. “It’s spring break.” The words felt absurd on his lips. It had been four days, and in that time he had gone from a college student bringing his girlfriend home for a carefree spring break boating the Ten Thousand Islands and backwaters of the Everglades, to a fugitive, holing up at his grandmother’s and making plans to flee the state. He looked at Ada and saw her staring back at him, the same uncertainty in her eyes.

  “What about you?” she asked Ada. “Your parents know you’re here?”

  “They know I’m in Florida with Marshall’s family for break,” Ada replied steadily.

  “Where are your people from?”

  “I was born in Canada, but we live in Nebraska.”

  Marshall looked at her in surprise. He’d never known she’d lived anywhere but Nebraska.

  “I knew I couldn’t place your accent,” Grandmother Tobias said, as if it had affirmed something. “And how long do you plan to stay?”

  “A couple of days,” Marshall said. “We have to get back to school next week.”

  “You need to let your parents know where you are, that you’re safe. You too,” she said to Ada. “I’m happy to have you both here, but I won’t have your folks worried sick about you.”

  Marshall nodded and lied. “We’ll call as soon as it’s a decent hour,” he said. “I’d like to talk to my mom before I talk to Dad,” he added, and she nodded understandingly, swallowing it whole. He looked down at the scarred table, feeling sick to his stomach, thankful that she didn’t know him well enough to pick up on any subtle clues that he was lying.

  “Mrs. Tobias?” Ada asked. “Could I please use the restroom?”

  “Of course, girl. Head on down that hall, it’ll be on the right. Take your time, breakfast’ll be ready soon. I don’t imagine the two of you had much of a dinner last night sleeping in that car in my yard,” she said, startling them both with a hearty laugh. “Oh Lord, reminds me of some of the stunts Randy and your daddy used to pull.”

  She scraped her chair back as Ada headed down the hall. Marshall tucked his head down and took a long sip from his coffee and gratefully inhaled the scent of sausage and biscuits wafting from the kitchen. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that Ada wouldn’t eat most of it.

  He wasn’t sure what was going to happen. But right now, he was safe for a few hours, with a hot breakfast on the way and the woman he loved by his side. He closed his eyes and thanked God for his good fortune.

  Eleven

  IT is astounding what you can sleep through. It was our fourth night in Meghan’s room and the nurses came in every hour to take her vital signs. They weren’t always quiet, and they often turned the lights on suddenly, but I had slept through most of it last night.

  Cal talked the nurses into moving another recliner bed into the room, and it was surprisingly comfortable. With the exception of a couple of nights in the hospital when Meghan was born, Cal and I hadn’t slept apart since our third date. Of course, for me “slept” was a rather strong term for what I actually did.

  In our first years together I slept little. I’ve always needed dark and quiet to fully sleep, but Cal breathed heavily, and occasionally snored, and turned over often, and he liked a nightlight on in the bathroom in case he needed it in the middle of the night.

  I appreciated his concern for aim, but everything was exaggerated when I couldn’t sleep, and no matter which way I turned, that little glow from the cracked door managed to seem like a klieg light by two in the morning. And his heavy breathing was like a rushing river, which made the snoring like a freight train and the tossing as if someone were leaping about the bed.

  But my need to be with my husband at night superseded my need for eight straight hours, and so, over the years, I had gotten used to it all, the light, the breathing, the shaking bed. My father had snored loudly enough for me to hear in my bedroom upstairs, and I suppose that perhaps I viewed my sleep deprivation as a wifely rite of passage, and even a way to feel closer to my mother.

  But Cal’s snoring had been imperceptible with Meghan’s respirator running and his distance from me, and of course I could not feel his restless tossing at three in the morning from across the room. I may well have slept more in that recliner in a busy hospital room than I had in all the days of my marriage, and for the first time since Cal and I began sharing our sleeping space, I wondered what it would be like to sleep alone in a bed.

  He brought a couple of coffees up for us, and that was nice too. We’d always woken at staggered times, Cal up first for fishing, me later to get the kids off to school and then into my studio to get some restoration done. He usually left coffee in the pot for me, but on the whole my mornings were spent alone, and I always thought I liked it that way.

  All of this, of course, was temporary, and as such took on the luster of fantasy, of a different life. The alternate roads in life are not just a poetic conceit; they are so real and heartbreaking in the details that are occasionally revealed to us, the glimpses of how things could be, if we were braver, if we had listened to our parents, if we had, or hadn’t, had children.

  I had always been the woman who smiled smugly and said that I was happy with who I was and that everything that had happened to me made me this person and blah blah blah, and I could cheerfully smack that smug smile off my face now. I wish someone had done it every time I’d said it, and I imagine that quite a few had wanted to.

  Yes, all of my choices, mistakes or not, had made me this person that I was today. This wife who was so vaguely unhappy in a thousand roundabout ways that she couldn’t even face it head-on until she was confined with her husband in a hospital room. This mother who had so utterly failed her son that he was facing a jail sentence—nutty, bereaved Dr. Kimball aside—and this mother who, unable to protect her own daughter, instead watched over her comatose, tiny body and lamented her own marriage.

  My self-pity had not blossomed overnight, but I felt a right to it now and claimed it like a bride’s thrown bouquet. It was the only emotion I could identify, and so I clung to it, inhaling its sweet, slightly rotting aroma and growing heady with it.

  Cal and I took turns showering, and I embraced the opportunity to have a good cry, perfectly at home sobbing in the shower, its noise covering my own, its water mingling with mine. I could not say that I was refreshed when I dried off, but cleaner, yes, at least I was a little cleaner and the stink of self-pity had lessened a bit.

  When I got out of the bathroom the nurse was just leaving, and Cal was pulling a small card
out of a large plant arrangement. I couldn’t imagine who even knew what was happening, though of course Cal had gotten Kevin to cover his trips for him, so perhaps it was from the marina or Kevin’s wife.

  He held it out to me after reading it, and I was surprised to see Sandy’s signature at the bottom of a short message saying little more than the standard Get Well Soon. I had liked Sandy so much, but I could not get the image of those cookies at her register out of my mind, and the ghost of a scent of peanut butter haunted me whenever I thought of it. She was forever associated with it, adjacent to blame, close enough for me.

  “That was nice of her,” Cal said, alternating peering at the digital numbers on Meghan’s respirator and searching her face.

  “You know they got it there,” I said. “That’s where they got the cookie. Sandy made it, just the night before, she told me. Nice and fresh.”

  “So, it’s her fault now?”

  I didn’t bother answering him. I had spied something sticking out of the pothos and ferns in the arrangement and pulled out a long, gray envelope. I sank down in Cal’s chair and drew out a single-page letter.

  Dearest Calvin, Chloe, and Marshall:

  Words cannot express the deep sorrow I felt upon learning about Meghan. I am, of course, aware that it must have been the cookie bought at my own store, and hope you know how very sorry I am for that. I couldn’t have known, but it still feels as though a piece of my heart has broken, and I feel the need to seek your forgiveness.

  Kevin and Stacey Greaver are members of our congregation, and Stacey called me as soon as she heard the news from Kevin. We have been in touch with the hospital, and while they are protective of how much information they’re giving out, they have let us know that Meghan is in a coma and that her family is there constantly, which must be a great comfort to her.

  We have started a prayer circle for Meghan and your entire family, and our service this Sunday will be in honor of you all, with special prayers being made at every service until Meghan is well and home again.

  Please consider me at your disposal, and if there is anything that needs to be done at the house or in any capacity, I urge you to call, day or night.

  Most sincerely,

  Sandra Wells

  Her number and the number of the church were at the bottom and I stared at them, feeling an urge to go down to the quiet little chapel and call. Instead, I silently handed the letter to Cal and walked down to the vending machine for a tiny package of potato chips and a sugar-filled soda. When I returned to the hallway I found myself walking behind two men in sport coats. To my surprise, they stopped at Meghan’s door and spoke quietly before one of them raised a fist and rapped lightly on the door.

  I turned into an empty room and peeked out around the corner. Meghan’s door opened and they stood in the hallway while they talked to Cal. As soon as I heard them introduce themselves as detectives, I hurried down the hall. If they were detectives, then it meant that it was about Marshall, and I wasn’t going to stand by and let Cal indict our son.

  “—think it’s appropriate to talk in my daughter’s room,” Cal was saying when I neared.

  “I’m Meghan’s mother,” I said loudly, making them both turn in surprise. “How can I help you?”

  “Chloe, they’re here to take statements from us.”

  “Statements about what?”

  “Mrs. Tobias, I’m Detective Hernandez and this is my partner, Detective Rhoades. We’ve been assigned to the case against Marshall Tobias and Ada Sparks, and we’d like to speak to you and Mr. Tobias at your convenience.”

  “Well, this isn’t convenient. As you can see, my husband and I are busy with our daughter.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And we’re sorry for your troubles here,” Detective Rhoades said. “Could we set up a time that would be better for you?”

  “I know my wife doesn’t want our daughter to be alone,” Cal said. “So now that she’s here I’ll be happy to go downstairs and talk for a few minutes. But they both need me back here as soon as possible.”

  Both of the detectives nodded, pleased looks on their faces, but I was seething.

  “I would like to speak with my husband about our daughter in private for a moment,” I said, shooting him a meaningful look. “He can meet you down there.”

  The two men looked at each other, but Detective Hernandez nodded. “We’ll be in the cafeteria,” he said to Cal. “Thank you both for your time.”

  “I’ll be down in a bit,” Cal said easily. We both waited for them to get on the elevator before we entered Meghan’s room. Sandy’s plant arrangement looked obscenely alive and green on the windowsill.

  I went straight to Meghan and stroked her forehead before turning to Cal.

  “What are you planning to say to them?”

  “I’m going to tell the truth,” he said simply. “I’m going to tell them what Marshall told us. What else am I supposed to say, Chloe? Everyone has heard the exact same story. I’m not the one who’s talked to him since he told us. I imagine you’ll have more to say to them than I will. So, what are you going to say?”

  I didn’t know. Fact was, Cal was right. We hadn’t given a thought to the possible ramifications of repeating what Marshall had told us. We had been too shocked, too worried about Meghan. They—the doctors, the nurses—had asked how it had happened. We had told them what Marshall told us.

  And Marshall hadn’t said anything to me after I had picked him up that deviated from or added to his original story. It was all incredibly, stupidly simple.

  “Give me back that lawyer’s card,” I said suddenly, holding out my hand. Why had I not thought of this before?

  Cal’s hand moved to his back pocket cautiously. “Why?”

  “Don’t you think we should talk to one?” I asked. “If we’re being questioned by the police—”

  “They’re not charging us with anything, Chloe. The case is against Marshall and Ada.”

  “They’re still questioning us. And I think we should have someone who knows about the law on our side. What if they put words in our mouths? Make it seem like we said something we didn’t?”

  “I think you’ve been watching too many cop shows. If we don’t have anything to hide—and we don’t—then we don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “I think you’re being naïve,” I said in exasperation.

  “And I think you’re being evasive and combative, and you’re going to wind up causing more problems than we already have,” he replied hotly.

  I dropped my head in my hands and pressed my fingers against my eyelids, the chill from my fingertips easing my swollen eyes. I pressed harder, feeling the give, feeling the pressure move through the bridge of my nose.

  “If we can’t get together on this—this thing with Marshall, Cal—then we already have more problems.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I took a deep breath. “It means that I need to get your support on this. I need for you to at least act as though your son’s future matters to you. We have been on opposite sides of this for, well, for most of Marshall’s life, and the thing is, you’re just wrong. You just are. You have this blind spot—”

  “I have the blind spot? No, Chloe,” he said, and his voice was shockingly gentle, “my eyes have finally been opened. I care deeply about Marshall’s future. And if he doesn’t take responsibility for this, and he is responsible, then I see nothing in Marshall’s future but misery. I was wrong, I’m not anymore.”

  “Then we are in deep trouble.”

  He nodded. “I guess we are.”

  Oh, how close were we to saying what? I had never been good at ultimatums. I was always too aware of both sides, too afraid that perhaps I would have to follow through on whatever threat I was making. Especially with Cal. I almost always caved first. Except when it had come to our children.

  Cal had often accused me—sometimes jokingly, sometimes seriously—of being unable to make a decision. Where we went to dinner, what m
ovie to watch, when to buy something. But he never appreciated all the decisions I made on an hour-to-hour basis for our children.

  Choices in groceries, clothing, school supplies, homework expectations, cultural education, hairstyles, dental care, a million decisions made without his input. Because that’s what mothers did. Mothers were the ones who knew what was best for their children: It was a biological right.

  Right?

  “Cal, if we’re not together on this . . .”

  “Yes?” His challenge was clear.

  “Then we’re not together.” It had been said, and there was no going back.

  “Be very careful about what you’re saying here, Chloe,” he said.

  “Okay. I won’t speak with the police without a lawyer present. I don’t want you to, either. I won’t say anything that might implicate our son or further their case. I don’t want you to, either. I assume, every day, that our daughter will open her eyes. I want you to, also, vocally and with feeling.” Now that I had stepped over that line, I was calm. “If you don’t support our children, then you don’t support us, or me. And that’s not a marriage.”

  His face drained of color, leaving his tan a sickly color, and he somehow seemed more fragile than he had a moment ago. “I can’t believe that you don’t see that I am supporting our children,” he said. “I am supporting Marshall’s need to take responsibility for his actions, and I’m supporting our daughter’s right for...”

  “Vengeance?” I filled in for him. “Isn’t that what this is about for you? Don’t make it about Meghan. Do you think that if she opened her eyes and talked that she would want Marshall in jail? Do you think Meghan would be happy about what you’re doing?”

  “I am not encouraging anyone to send him to jail. I am saying that he should be held accountable!” He finally couldn’t hold it any longer, and as his voice rose at me, his color flooded back until he was red in the face. “I’m going downstairs now, to talk to the detectives. I’m going to do what I have to do.”

  “Then I will too,” I said, turning away from him and sinking down into my chair as he stormed out. The soft click of the door seemed an incongruous period rather than an exclamation point on the end of his anger, and there was some sort of satisfaction in that.