by John Saul
“We’ll talk about it later.” She bent over and kissed Michelle lightly on the cheek. Michelle’s only response was to lower herself, so she was once more lying on the bed. As June watched, all expression seemed to fade from Michelle’s face. Had her eyes not remained open, June would have sworn she had fellen asleep.
Hugging Jennifer close to her, June backed slowly out of the room.
Cal came home in the middle of the afternoon, and spent the rest of the day reading and playing with Jennifer. He spoke only briefly to June, and didn’t go up to Michelle’s room at all.
As June finished setting the table for dinner, and was about to call Cal into the kitchen, an idea came to her. Without pausing to think about it, she went into the living room where Cal sat with Jennifer in his lap.
“I’m going to have Michelle come down for dinner,” she said. She saw Cal flinch, but he quickly recovered himself.
“Tonight? What brought this on?” His voice was guarded, and June prepared herself for another argument.
“She’s spending too much time by herself. You never go up there—”
“That’s not true,” Cal started to protest, but June didn’t let him finish.
“Whether it’s true or not isn’t the point. The point is that she’s spending too much time alone, feeling sorry for herself. And I won’t let it continue. I’m going to go up and tell her to put on her robe and come downstairs. And I’m not going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
As soon as she left the room, Cal put Jennifer in the extra bassinet they had installed in the living room, and fixed himself a drink. By the time June returned, he had finished it and begun on a second, which he brought with him when June called him to the table.
They sat silently, waiting for Michelle. As the hall clock ticked hollowly, Cal began twisting his napkin.
“How long are you going to wait?” he asked.
“Until Michelle comes down.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“She will,” June said firmly. “I know she will.” But inside she did not feel the assurance of her own words.
The minutes dragged. June had to force herself to stay at the table, not to go upstairs, not to give in at all. And then it hit her.
Maybe Michelle couldn’t come down. She got up from the table and hurried into the hall.
At the top of the stairs, Michelle, her robe tied tightly around her waist, was clutching the bannister with one hand, while with the other she tested the top step with her cane.
“Can I help?” June offered. Michelle glanced at her, then shook her head.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll do it by myself.”
June felt the tension that had been building up in her suddenly release itself. But then, as Michelle spoke once more, the knot of fear that had been clutching at her all afternoon regained its grip, more tightly than ever.
“Mandy will help me,” Michelle said quietly. “She told me she would.”
Very carefully, Michelle started down the stairs.
CHAPTER 12
The morning sun, crackling with an autumnal brightness, flooded through the windows of the studio, its rays seeking out every corner, its brightness lending a new mood to the canvas on the easel. June had begun it several days ago. It depicted the view from the studio, but it was moody, somber, cast in heavy blues and grays that reflected all too well her own mood over the past few weeks. But this morning, bathed in the sunlight, its colors seemed to have changed, brightened, capturing the excitement of a suddenly gusting wind churning the cove on a dark day. Dipping her brush in white paint, June began adding whitecaps to the boiling sea that erupted over her canvas.
In one corner of the studio, Jennifer lay in her bassinet, cooing and gurgling in her sleep, her tiny hands contentedly clutching at her blanket. June tore herself away from her work long enough to smile at Jenny. As she was about to return to the canvas, a movement outside caught her eye.
Putting her palette and brush aside, she went to the window and looked out.
Michelle, leaning heavily on a cane, was making her way toward the studio.
As she watched, June fought to control her emotions, struggled against an almost overpowering impulse to go to Michelle, to help her.
Michelle’s pain was written boldly on her face: her features, even and delicate, were screwed into a mask of concentration as she made herself keep moving steadily forward, her good right leg moving easily, almost eagerly, while her left leg dragged reluctantly behind as if mired in mud, being moved by sheer strength of will.
June felt tears well up in her eyes. The contrast between this fragile child bravely limping toward her, and the robust, agile Michelle of only a few weeks ago tore at her.
I won’t cry, she told herself. If Michelle can take it, so can I. In a strange way, June drew strength from the pain-contorted body that drew steadily nearer, then, suddenly feeling self-conscious about watching Michelle, she turned back to her easel. When, a few minutes later, Michelle appeared at the door, she was able to feign surprise.
“Well, look who’s here!” she exclaimed, forcing her voice to a level of cheerfulness she didn’t feel. Reflexively, she took a step toward Michelle, but Michelle shook her head.
“I made it,” she said triumphantly, lowering herself on June’s stool so that her left leg hung nearly straight to the floor. She sighed heavily, then grinned at her mother, a trace of her old humor briefly illuminating her face. “If I hurried, I bet I could have made it twice as fast.”
“Does it hurt terribly?” June asked, letting her mask of cheerfulness fall away. Michelle seemed to consider her answer carefully, and June wondered whether she was going to hear the truth, or some evasion Michelle thought she might like to hear.
“Not as much as yesterday,” Michelle said.
“I’m not sure you should have tried coming all the way out here …”
“I needed to talk to you.” Michelle’s face turned serious, and she shifted her weight on the stool. Even that slight movement sent stabs of pain through her. She winced slightly, and waited for the spasm to pass before she spoke again.
“What is it?” June asked finally.
“I—I’m not sure. It’s—” She floundered for a moment, then her eyes moistened, and a tear began running slowly down her cheek. June quickly put her arms around Michelle and hugged her close.
“What is it, darling? Tell me. Please?”
Michelle buried her face against her mother, her body suddenly wracked with sobs. With each sob, June could feel Michelle’s body tighten with the pain in her hip. For several minutes June held her, until Michelle’s agony slowly passed.
“Is it that bad? Does it hurt that much?” June wished there were some way she could take the pain upon herself. But Michelle was shaking her head.
“It’s Daddy,” she said finally.
“Daddy? What about him?”
“He’s—he’s changed,” Michelle said softly, so softly June had to strain to hear her.
“Changed?” June echoed. “How?” But even as she asked the question, she knew the answer.
“Ever since I fell,” Michelle began, but then another storm of tears broke over her. “He doesn’t love me anymore,” she wailed. “Ever since I fell, he doesn’t love me!”
June rocked her gently, trying to comfort her. “No, darling, that isn’t true. You know that isn’t true. He loves you very much. Very, very much.”
“Well, he doesn’t act like it,” Michelle sobbed. “He—he never plays with me anymore, and he doesn’t talk to me, and when I try to talk to him he—he goes somewhere else.”
“Oh, now that isn’t true,” June said, though she knew it was. She had been afraid of this moment, sure that sooner or later Michelle was going to realize that something had happened to Cal, and that it had to do with her. She could feel Michelle shivering in her arms, though the studio was warm.
“It is true,” Michelle was saying, her voice muffled in the folds of
June’s blouse. “This morning I asked him if I could go to the office with him. I only wanted to sit in the waiting room and read the magazines! But he wouldn’t let me.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t that he didn’t want you with him,” June lied. “He probably had a busy day, and didn’t think he’d have much time for you.”
“He never has time for me. Not anymore!”
June pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, and dried Michelle’s eyes. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll have a talk with him tonight, and explain to him that it’s important for you to get out of the house. Then maybe he’ll take you along tomorrow. Okay?”
Michelle sniffled a little, blew her nose into the handkerchief, and shrugged. “I guess,” she replied, straightening up and trying to smile. “He does still love me, doesn’t he?”
“Of course he does,” June assured her once again. “I’m sure there’s nothing wrong at all. Now, let’s talk about something else.” She cast about in her mind quickly. “like school, for instance. Don’t you think it’s about time you thought about going back?”
Michelle shook her head uncertainly. “I don’t want to go back to school. Everybody will laugh at me. They always laugh at cripples.”
“Maybe they will at first,” June conceded. “But you just turn the other cheek, and ignore it. Besides, you’re not crippled. You just limp a little. And soon you won’t even limp anymore.”
“Yes, I will,” Michelle said evenly. “I’ll limp for the rest of my life.”
“No,” June protested. “You’ll get well. You’ll be fine.”
Michelle shook her head. “No I won’t. I’ll get used to it, but I won’t be fine.” Painfully, she got to her feet. “Is it all right if I go for a walk?”
“A walk?” June asked doubtfully. “Where?”
“Along the bluff. I won’t go very far.” Her eyes searched her mother’s face. “If I’m going to go back to school, I’d better practice, hadn’t I?”
Go back to school? A minute ago she said she didn’t want to go back to school. In confusion, June nodded her agreement. “Of course. But be careful, sweetheart. And please, don’t try to go down to the beach, all right?”
“I won’t,” Michelle promised. She started toward the studio door but suddenly stopped, her eyes fixed on the stain on the floor. “I thought that was gone.”
June shook her head. “We tried, but it wouldn’t come out. Maybe if I knew what it was …”
“Why don’t you ask Dr. Carson? He probably knows.”
“Maybe I will,” June said. Then: “How long will you be gone?”
“However long it takes,” Michelle said. Leaning on her cane, she slowly went out into the sunlight.
Josiah Carson stared up at the ceiling, ran one hand through his thick mane of nearly white hair, and drummed the fingers of his other hand on the desk top in front of him. As always when he was alone, he was thinking about Alan Hanley. Things had been going well until that day when Alan had fallen from the roof. Or had he fallen?
Josiah was sure he hadn’t. Over the years, too many things had happened in his house, too many people had died.
His mind drifted back to his wife, Sarah, and the days when life had seemed to him to be perfect. He and Sarah were going to have a family—a big family—but it hadn’t worked out that way. Sarah had died giving birth to his daughter. She shouldn’t have died—there was no reason for it. She had been healthy, the pregnancy had been easy, but as his daughter was born, Sarah had died. Josiah had survived the loss, pouring his love out to his daughter, little Sarah.
And then, when Sarah was just twelve, it had happened.
He still didn’t know how it had happened.
He came downstairs one morning and opened the huge walk-in refrigerator in the kitchen.
On the floor, holding a doll that Josiah had never seen before, he found his daughter, dead.
Why had she gone into the refrigerator? Josiah never knew.
He buried little Sarah and with her, he buried the doll.
After that, he had lived alone, and as the years, more than forty of them, passed, he had begun to believe that he was safe, that nothing more was going to happen.
And then, Alan Hanley had fallen.
In his own mind he was convinced that Alan hadn’t simply lost his footing. No, there was more to it than that, and the doll was the proof.
The doll he had buried with his daughter.
The doll he had found under Alan’s broken body.
The doll Michelle Pendleton had shown him.
Josiah had wanted to talk to Alan about the doll, but the boy had never regained consciousness: Cal Pendleton had let him die.
Had killed him, really.
If Cal hadn’t killed him, Josiah could have found out what had actually happened on the roof that day—what Alan had seen, and felt, and heard. He could have found out what was happening in his house, what had happened to his family. Now he’d never know. Cal Pendleton had ruined it for him.
But he’d get even.
He was already starting to get even.
It had been so easy, once he’d found out how guilty Cal felt about Alan. From there it was easy. Sell him the practice. Sell him the house. It had worked.
He’d gotten Cal into the house, and the doll was back.
Cal’s daughter had the doll now.
And whatever was happening, it was no longer happening to the Carsons.
Now it was happening to the Pendletons.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices from the examining room next to the office, where Cal was examining Lisa Hartwick.
Cal had tried to beg off examining Lisa, but Josiah hadn’t let him. He knew how frightened Cal was of children now, how he had a feeling—reasonable or not—that whatever he did with a child, it was going to be wrong, and he was going to hurt the child.
Josiah Carson understood those feelings.
In the examining room, Lisa Hartwick stared at Cal, her light brown bangs nearly hiding her suspicious eyes. When he asked her to open her mouth, she pouted.
“Why should I?”
“So I can look at your throat,” Cal told her. “If I can’t see it, I can’t tell you why it’s sore, can I?”
“It isn’t sore. I just told Daddy that so I wouldn’t have to go to school.”
Cal put down his tongue depressor, a feeling of relief flooding through him. With this child, at least, there was no immediate threat. Still, she wasn’t the nicest child he’d ever run across. In fact, he found himself disliking her intensely. “I see,” he replied. “Don’t you like school?”
Lisa shrugged. “It’s okay. I just can’t stand the snotty kids around here. If you weren’t born here, they never want to be your friends.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Cal replied. “Michelle’s made some friends.”
“That’s what she thinks,” Lisa said. “Wait’ll she goes back to school.” Then she cocked her head, and stared impudently at Cal. “Is it true that she can’t walk?”
Cal felt himself flush. When he answered, his voice was gruff. “She can walk just fine. There’s nothing wrong with her, and pretty soon she’ll be as good as new. She just got banged up a little.” He knew he was lying, but he couldn’t help himself—it made things easier if he pretended Michelle was going to be all right. And maybe—just maybe—she would be.
“Well, that’s not what I heard,” Lisa said, hopping off the examining table. Her expression changed suddenly, and her face took on a vulnerability Cal hadn’t seen since she showed up in the office. “I don’t have a mother, either,” she said softly.
For a moment Cal wasn’t sure what she meant, but then it came to him. “But Michelle has a mother,” he said. “We adopted her when she was just a baby.”
“Oh,” said Lisa, and Cal thought he could see disappointment in her eyes.
“Still,” Cal went on smoothly, “I suppose the two of you do have some things in common. Neither one
of you was born here, and even though Michelle’s a full-fledged orphan, you’re half a one, aren’t you? Maybe you should come out and see Michelle sometime.…” He deliberately left the question hanging in the air. For a moment he thought Lisa was going to pick it up. But she didn’t, not quite.
“Maybe I will,” she said halfheartedly. “But maybe I won’t, either.” Before Cal could reply to her rudeness, she was gone.
When Cal came into the office they were sharing, Josiah Carson pretended to be engrossed in a medical journal. Only when Cal had seated himself at his makeshift desk did Carson glance up.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
Cal shrugged. “She’s a difficult child.”
“She’s a brat,” Carson stated.
“Well, life isn’t easy for her.”
“Life isn’t easy for any of us,” Josiah said pointedly.
Cal flinched visibly, then met Carson’s eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The old doctor shrugged elaborately. “Make of it what you will.”
It was as if he’d pulled a plug. Cal sagged in his chair, his eyes as lifeless as his posture. He looked bleakly at Carson.
“Josiah, what am I going to do? I can’t face Michelle, I can’t talk to her, I can’t even touch her. I keep thinking about Alan Hanley, and wondering what I did wrong. And what I did wrong with Michelle.”
“We all make mistakes, Cal,” Josiah said. “We can’t blame ourselves for showing bad judgment under pressure. We just have to accept our limitations, and live with them.”
He paused, trying to assess Cal’s reaction. Maybe he’d pushed him too far. But Cal was watching him, concentrating on what he was saying. Josiah smiled and took another tack. “Maybe it’s all my fault Certainly what happened to Michelle is my fault. If I hadn’t sold you that damned house—”
Cal glanced at Josiah sharply. “ ‘Damned house’? Why did you say that?”
Josiah shifted in his chair. “I probably shouldn’t have. Call it a slip of the tongue.”
But Cal was not to be put off.
“Is there something about that house I should know?”
