Whisper Me This

by Kerry Anne King

  Shuffling, muted voices, and then a male voice comes on. I think it’s familiar, although I’m so upside down by now I can’t be sure. “Hello? If you have not yet fled to a galaxy far, far away, speak to me.”

  “If this is a bad time . . .”

  “This is a perfect time.”

  “This is Maisey. From the fire that wasn’t.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “How on earth did you know?”

  “I recognize your voice. How are your folks?”

  “They kept him, my dad. Up at the hospital. He’s all confused.”

  Tony’s voice is calm and sympathetic. “He’s been through a lot. Can’t imagine. How long have your parents been married?”

  I don’t honestly know the answer to this. “Longer than I’ve been around. Look, my folks aren’t the reason I’m calling. I mean, sort of, but not exactly.”

  “How can I help?”

  Just like that. Straight-up. No winding twists and turns, just a question requiring an answer.

  So I tell him. My face red with embarrassment, sitting on the counter in the steamy bathroom, feeling helpless and stupid and almost out-of-body.

  “I’ll be right over,” he says. No difficulty with decision-making for this guy.

  “Look, I realize you’re with family and probably don’t want to—”

  “No, it’s fine. I was wanting to get out of the house for a bit anyway. I’ll be right there.”

  He hangs up.

  I’m still standing there with the phone in my hand, appalled by what I’ve just done, when the damn thing rings. It scares the bejeezus out of me, skittering out of my hand and into the sink. When I grab for it, it’s now just wet enough to be slippery and squirts out of my grasp twice before I bobble it and manage to get it in both hands.

  I figure it’s probably Tony calling back to cancel, having had an earful from his girlfriend, but it’s Greg.

  “Did you find the advance directive?” He doesn’t even ask about Mom and Dad. He is Attorney Greg, and I am now his client.

  “Hey, I’m just out of the shower . . .”

  “You didn’t, did you?” he says. “You didn’t even look.”

  “Dad burned papers, Greg. And he shredded things. Why would he do that?”

  Mom told him to. I don’t tell Greg that part, that strange, absurd part. I also don’t tell Greg about the pink blankets and the two babies or my sudden memory of my childhood imaginary friend.

  “From what you’re telling me about his current mental state, why doesn’t seem like a valid question. Do you think he burned the advance directive?”

  “He might have. I’ve been all through the filing cabinets and haven’t seen it anywhere.”

  Greg says nothing. I say nothing. Both of us say nothing for long enough that I think maybe he’s drifted off to sleep, but he’s just thinking.

  “And the neighbor?”

  “What about her?”

  “What does she say about your dad? Is she still making noises about domestic violence? Does she think he has dementia? What exactly did she say to the cops?”

  “I haven’t talked to the neighbor.”

  “Talk to her. Invite her over for coffee.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Maisey. This is not about your comfort. You want to get your dad clear or not?”

  I sigh. I would like this to be about my comfort, but most things in life are not. “I want to get my dad clear.”

  “Good. Tomorrow morning. Coffee with the neighbor. And search—I mean really search—for that advance directive.”

  “It’s not here, Greg.”

  “Try the bank.”

  “What?”

  “Some people keep important papers in a safe-deposit box. Try that.”

  “Which bank? And don’t I need some sort of document to be able to access a box? Like a power of attorney designation or something?”

  “I’ll email you a form. Get it printed and get Walter to sign it.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that. How can that even be legal?”

  He sighs so heavily, I swear I feel the wind move through the phone and into my ear. “This is to keep him out of jail, right? And to take proper care of your mother. It’s not like you’re defrauding somebody out of money.”

  Shades of truth. That’s the legal system in action. I don’t like it, don’t want to be part of it. I’m saved from any commitment by the ringing of the doorbell.

  “Gotta go, somebody’s here.”

  “If it’s that neighbor—”

  It’s not the neighbor, though.

  It’s rescue, in the form of a decidedly attractive paramedic fireman by the name of Tony.

  Leah’s Journal

  I’ve never believed in journaling or in visiting a counselor, for that matter. It’s one thing to send a child to therapy and quite another to go yourself. I didn’t tell you about my counseling session, as I didn’t tell you about so many other things. I only went the one time. There was no point going back—the words are lodged too tightly in my chest to be able to speak them to a stranger. So even though I know full well you won’t be reading this, it makes it easier if I pretend that I’m writing it for you.

  Dying isn’t easy, as it turns out. Not that I thought it would be, but I did not expect this clamoring of old ghosts, rattling their cages and demanding consideration. Was I right in what I have done? Was there a better way? I need to face up to these questions and the answers if I am to die with any sort of peace.

  When I told the counselor I would not be coming back, she suggested that I try a journal. I scoffed, but memories are hounding me now, night and day, and something must be done to lay them to rest. You will never know how much I long to speak them to you, but I don’t have that kind of courage. I’ve asked myself if maybe once the story is written out I could ask you to read it, but even that is beyond me.

  No. My first plan is best. When I am done exorcising my demons (if this is even possible), these pages will need to be destroyed.

  Still, I find that it is comforting to picture you reading over my shoulder.

  My past has been locked away so completely and so long that it had come to feel like it wasn’t mine, my memories no more relevant to me than a book I’d read or a movie seen and forgotten long ago.

  No more. Emotions well up inside me at odd moments, as powerful and fresh as if they were brand-new. You are my only defense, that and pure willful stubbornness. I can’t speak to you of this, and my will, it seems, is failing.

  How will I keep from spilling it all out to you? Can I persuade you that it’s just grief over my own early demise or maybe pain from a headache? Maybe writing it here will be a means of damage control.

  Still, I am evading what I must write. You see how it is? Talking around the edges of things. Never speaking the truth of it. Because if I speak of it, if I speak of any of it, then one of two things will happen: The disaster fended off by my silence will come crashing down on us. On Maisey.

  Or nothing will happen, and all my heartbreak will have been for nothing.

  I’m not sure which fate would be worse.

  Chapter Nine

  Tony fears only three things in life: guns, women, and the nightmares that fracture his sleep.

  Standing on the Addingtons’ front porch in the not-quite-summer twilight, awaiting a confrontation with two of these items combined, he has a ridiculous urge to race back to his truck and peel rubber right out of here. But his mother has raised him both to honor promises and to assist those in need, and he’s not about to let a little anxiety deter him from his duty.

  Maisey is only in town for a week or two to check on her parents, he reminds himself. Hell, she has a kid and is probably married. As for the gun, he’s a crack shot and a gun safety expert. He can handle this.

  Still, when the door opens and Maisey looks out at him, her abundant hair wild and untamed and framing those changeable blue-green eyes, his heart k
icks up a notch. Sweat dampens the back of his T-shirt, despite a cool breeze.

  You can do this. Just keep it light. Disable the weapon. Be polite. Then get the hell out of Dodge.

  “Gun squad, reporting for duty.” He touches his fingers to the brim of his cap in a fake salute. “Where is the offending weapon?”

  Maisey hesitates, briefly, crossing her arms over her belly, her eyes flickering over him full of questions. Nervous, he thinks. Probably having second thoughts about inviting him into the house now that he’s out of his official capacity. He smiles at her, tries to make his six-foot-three bulk look small and nonthreatening.

  “I can wait here, if you want to go get it.”

  An unexpected smile, pure mischief, lights up her face. “Wouldn’t Mrs. Carlton just love that? She’s already watching us from her window. Come in. Guessing what we’re up to will totally make her day.”

  She steps aside to let him into the entryway and leads him into the living room.

  “Hang on, I’ll go get it.”

  Funny how a uniform and a crisis change everything. Out of his uniform now, with no official business here, it feels strange and wrong to him that he knows the floor plan of the house, has been in the master bedroom, has seen the blood in the kitchen. He’s here by invitation, he reminds himself. He’s here to do a favor. Such a small thing, really, and he hates the way the inevitable anxiety creeps into his body.

  Maisey is blessedly quick, returning in less than a minute with a shapeless leather handbag. She holds it gingerly in outstretched hands. “It’s in here.”

  “I thought you said it was in your mom’s knitting bag.”

  “It was. I couldn’t just leave it there.” She presses the purse against his chest, and he can’t do anything other than grab it. His hands are starting to tremble. He can feel it, though thank God it isn’t visible yet.

  Turning his back to her, he carries the purse over to the couch and sets it down, feeling his way through the clutter of items for the gun, which he knows will have settled to the bottom.

  “My mother caught me snooping in my sister’s purse when I was six,” he says, offering an explanation for his reaction, a story that is true, although far from the truth. “I caught a spanking for that one. She said a woman’s purse is private business, and a man should keep his hands to himself.”

  “Must have been a pretty effective spanking.”

  “You’d think so, right? You’d be wrong. Jessica caught me snooping in her purse again later. Hey, I was curious about the ways of women. Jess wasn’t bound by any maternal principles of responsible discipline. She beat me up. Bloody nose. Black eye. When I tattled to my mom, she just looked at me. ‘Bet you don’t do that again,’ she said, and she was right. Now, thirty years later, you’re forcing me to scale the fortress. I’m terrified.”

  He lifts the gun out of the handbag, keeping the barrel down while he ejects the magazine and clears a 9-millimeter round from the chamber.

  “Your mom is a badass. It was fully loaded with one in the pipe.”

  “No.”

  Maisey’s tone makes him look up. Her eyes, wide with alarm, dominate her face. She shakes her head, emphatically. “My mom is the queen of the church supper and the PTA. She is vociferously antigun. When I was a kid, she tried to start an organization for mothers against firearms. It didn’t fare well here in Colville, but I can’t imagine what would change her like this.”

  “Maybe it belongs to your dad? A lot of women opt for a .22. This is a Glock with a high-capacity magazine. It’s a lot of gun.”

  A laugh bubbles up out of her. “My dad? Not exactly a gun man.”

  “It must belong to one of your parents,” Tony persists. “Nobody else lives here, right?”

  Maisey’s face crumples at his words, and she chokes on a sound halfway between laughter and tears. “I can’t ask either of them,” she whispers.

  Hell.

  He wants to comfort her, to make her laugh again, but that’s not why he’s here. Secure the gun, make sure everybody is safe, get out. That’s the plan.

  He lays the emptied gun down on the coffee table and thumbs the ammo out of the magazine. “Maybe you can ask your dad tomorrow. I’ve seen people come clear overnight with rest and hydration.”

  “Maybe.” She looks like a defiant child, hands clenched into fists, blinking against a flood of tears. A choked sob escapes her, and then another. All at once she reminds him of his little sister, Mia, and his resolve is all undone. “Hey,” he says. “Hey.”

  He puts a hand on her shoulder. Her body stiffens, and he thinks he’s made a mistake, but then all the tension goes out of her, and she rests her forehead against his chest. Tony strokes her hair, murmuring, “Hush, now, it will be all right,” as if she’s a child.

  Her arms go around him, and she buries her face in his shirt, her body shaking with sobs.

  He holds her. Just like comforting one of his sisters, he tells himself. But it isn’t. Not remotely. Her hair isn’t smooth and black; it’s soft and fine as silk. A red-gold curl catches on his hand and winds around his fingers. Her back is a long, smooth-muscled arc, and his body responds, against his will, with an inconvenient arousal.

  Thinking desperate thoughts of cold showers and accident scenes doesn’t do much to help.

  When her tears slow, and she draws in a shuddering breath, he drops his hands with a mixture of relief and regret and waits for the fallout. “Don’t be mad now,” he says.

  Maisey scrubs the tears from her eyes with the palms of both hands and blinks up at him. “What? Why would I be mad?”

  “I have sisters, remember? They always get bitchy after I see them cry. Especially if I’m nice.” He grins at her, trying to look big-brotherly and nonchalant and having no idea if he’s succeeding or not.

  She snorts, and a little snot bubble comes out of her nose.

  “Oh my God,” she says, clamping both hands over her face.

  Tony laughs. Despite his body’s demands, despite the gun waiting on the coffee table, despite everything, it’s genuine, clear, delighted laughter. He fetches the box of tissues sitting on the end table by the couch and brings them to her.

  “Tears are damned messy,” he says.

  She grabs a handful and turns her back to blow her nose and dry her face.

  “How many sisters?” she asks.

  “Five.”

  She spins around and goggles up at him, jolted out of her embarrassment. “Five? Five sisters?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Four older, one younger. Not a brother in the bunch. You?”

  “I’m an only.”

  “Lucky.”

  “Am I? It seems like it might be fun to have sisters.” There’s a wistfulness in her voice.

  “Yes. Well,” he says, wondering what it might have been like to grow up alone, without the tangle of girls alternately tormenting and taking care of him, “sisters are a mixed bag. Trust me. That was my little sister who answered the phone when you called. Mia. We share a house.”

  Maisey’s mouth opens, then closes again. A slow flush darkens cheeks already red from her weeping.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I thought she was your girlfriend.”

  She says it like maybe it matters to her, whether he has a girlfriend or not. His heart skips a beat, and he’s quick to tame it. “Girlfriend? Ha! Too many women in my life already. Seriously. Mia’s good people, but I should warn you that she’ll want to meet you now. You sure you’re not mad?”

  “Not the tiniest bit. A little embarrassed. Very grateful. For the gun, and for . . . can you keep it for me? The gun? I don’t know what to do with it.”

  Tony’s heart jabs sideways. His belly tightens. Whatever he does tonight, he won’t be taking the gun with him. He needs a solution, and he needs one now.

  “Tell you what. You hold on to the gun. I’ll take this.” He tucks the magazine into the front pocket of his jeans. “That way it can’t hurt anybody. Can you get me a ziplock ba
g for the ammo?” He looks up at her, questioning.

  Her eyes are focused on the gun, her forehead creased with worry. But then she draws a deep breath, and her face clears. “Deal.” She picks the weapon up with the tips of her fingers and drops it back into her handbag. For a minute she just stands there, as if she doesn’t know what to do next, and then she sort of crumples down onto the couch.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Exhausted,” she says, sliding down so she can rest her head. “I feel like I’ve gone boneless.”

  “When did you last eat?” He hears the words come out of his mouth and wants to call them back. What are you doing, idiot? Get out of this house. Bail.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Yesterday? Maybe the day before.”

  “Maybe it would help to get a little food into your body.”

  She laughs in a way that is perilously close to another bout of tears. “No food in this house worth eating. Aside from dry cereal. The milk has gone bad.”

  “Fine,” Tony says. “I’m ordering pizza.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “You need to eat. Your daughter needs to eat. I can’t imagine either of you are up to cooking. And, if I may say so, I am always hungry. So I’ll order pizza, and if you send me away, I’ll take a slice to go.”

  He realizes he is holding his breath, waiting for her answer. So much seems to hang in the balance of pizza. Maybe she’ll say no. Maybe she’ll thank him for his assistance and usher him politely out of the house. This is the safe solution, the thing that ought to happen.

  But instead, Maisey covers a yawn and gives him a small half smile. “Let me go wake Elle. She’ll never forgive me if I let her sleep through pizza. But first, I’ll get a bag for that.” She gestures at the heap of rounds on the coffee table.

  As if from a distance, Tony watches himself reach out a hand to help her up off the couch, hers so small and pale compared to his. An unfamiliar emotion expands inside his chest. He feels protective toward his mother and his sisters, but that feeling pales compared to this. He’s had plenty of crushes on women, but again, that feeling is different.