“I hope my mom’s not going to get in big trouble.”
“Me too, Jack. Me too.”
Bobbi pulled her pajamas from under her pillow, thankful to bring this day to a close. Jack seemed fine this evening, ate his dinner, and played hard. Maybe this thing with Tracy was an isolated event. Maybe. But she knew it wasn’t.
A binge drinker isn’t made in a day. She wouldn’t keep that much liquor in the house if she didn’t have a problem. Tracy could hide it from Jack, Chuck and everyone else, but it already owned her, and it wouldn’t let go until it destroyed her.
Then what would happen to Jack?
The bedroom door clicked closed, and she flinched.
“Sorry,” Chuck said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I was a million miles away. So what’s the whole story with Tracy?”
“I told you all I know. The after-shave guy stabbed her in the back, and she quit her job.”
“I can’t believe that’s it. It’s too simple.”
“But she thrives on being in control of everything, engineering situations to her advantage. I think it shook her up to have somebody one-up her.”
“Maybe last night, but I don’t think that explains today’s binge. Anger should have prompted her to plot her revenge.”
“Well, Dr. Molinsky, I’ll do a more thorough evaluation tomorrow when I check on her.”
Bobbi smiled and shook her head. “I can’t believe you took her car keys and threatened her with the psych ward. What if she’d called you on it?”
“I would have been in big trouble.”
“You know, she needs more help than you can give her.”
CHAPTER 20
PATHOS
Saturday, October 6
Bobbi woke even earlier than she did on school days. Careful not to rouse Chuck, she slipped out of bed and, following her favorite routine, she brewed a pot of coffee, Arabian this time, and then headed for the refuge of the study.
She settled into the love seat and pulled her Bible close. “Father God, You never wake me up this way unless You want to tell me something. I figure it’s about Tracy. You keep telling me I need to forgive her, but when she pulls a stunt like the one yesterday ... How can I do this? How can I release her when she doesn’t want forgiveness? I know that my heart is the one that needs to change. Donna said when I love her, then I’ll be able to forgive her. But ... I don’t want to love her.”
Bobbi could feel the war within her own soul in that moment. She knew the words she wanted, needed, to say next, but everything inside seemed to strain and claw to keep the request from being voiced. If she prayed it, God would answer it ... and then ... she’d have to do it.
“Give ... me ... a heart for her, for ... Tracy. Help me see her as You see her.”
Bobbi took a quick sip from her coffee then closed her eyes. Who is Tracy Ravenna, really? She’s despicable. She used Chuck. She terrorized Jack.
Bobbi shook her head and took a deep breath. Beyond all that. The real Tracy. She loved Jack. She was obviously successful in her career. Very ambitious and extremely self-reliant. But with no family that they knew of, and few, if any, friends ... she must be terribly lonely.
She opened her eyes and saw Chuck’s briefcase over by the desk. In twenty-five years of marriage, Bobbi had never gone through his things, not even in the months after the affair, but maybe he had the paternity files in there. She set her cup down and moved over to the desk, pulling the briefcase close. Snapping it open, she sorted through the contents until she came to one unlabelled folder. That was it.
On top of the stack of papers lay the newspaper articles from Tracy’s mother’s murder, and the trial that followed. Tracy was only eleven when the murder took place. Bobbi lost her own mother at the age of twelve. She vividly recalled that sense of directionless and abandonment she felt for years afterwards.
Dumped into the system, Tracy bounced between distant relatives and foster homes, never finding constancy anywhere. Even her résumé, with its list of short tenures at various law offices, reflected that instability.
Finally, in the back of the folder, Bobbi found the court transcript from the trial. Prosecutor John Dailey described movement by movement, in vivid, gut-wrenching detail, how Edward Henry Reynolds carried out the attack, all of it unfolding before Tracy’s eyes. Bobbi couldn’t suppress a shudder. The nightmares it must have caused. Still causes.
But the nightmare wasn’t over. In the sentencing phase, that terrified, anchorless little girl, summoned the courage to testify against her own father. She stated that she’d never seen her father angry with her mother, and that she’d never seen him violent.
Then she had to look across the courtroom into her daddy’s eyes and explain how he threatened to do the same to her if she ever told a soul what she’d seen.
“Dear God,” Bobbi whispered. She closed the folder, and pushed it back from the edge of the desk, before tears dropped onto the page.
How do you get through something like that without a family ... without God? Apparently, you don’t. You become vindictive, callous, afraid to trust, afraid to care about anybody ever again.
Except for Jack. In spite of the blow-up yesterday, Bobbi felt sure that Tracy would never intentionally hurt Jack. She had at least learned what a mother’s love felt like, and she was able to show that to Jack.
“Honey? Are you okay? You got up pretty early.” Chuck stood in the doorway of the study.
Bobbi wiped her eyes quickly. “I just needed a little quiet time, I guess.” She reached over and picked up the folder. “I confess. I got in your briefcase.”
“The paternity files?” Chuck crossed the room and leaned over to the desk.
Bobbi nodded. “You read the transcript?”
“When it came in.” Chuck took the folder from his wife, and flipped through it.
“You hear these kinds of things on the news, and it never registers that these are real people, and they have to pick up, and try to go on in the wake of something like this.” Bobbi sighed. “In a way, her dad’s partly responsible for your affair.”
“I think I’m mostly responsible,” Chuck said.
“I know that, but if Tracy had had a normal childhood, she might have grown up, married and never crossed your path.”
“Maybe. It doesn’t do much good to speculate that way.”
“When are you going back to her place?”
“This afternoon. I figure no matter how hung over she is, she should be up by two or three o’clock.”
“I want to go with you,” Bobbi said.
“Seriously?”
“I have to forgive her, Chuck, and I can’t do that unless I find some way to love her. I figure if I know her, really know her, as a person, and not as an adversary ... maybe ...”
“You’re amazing,” Chuck said quietly.
“No, if I did it without God making me, then I’d be amazing.”
“You’re still amazing,” Chuck said. He laid the folder on the desk to straighten the papers before putting it away. Then he took a sheet from the stack. “I knew I’d seen that name! He’s the prosecutor.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tracy’s getting mail from John Dailey. Something’s going on with her dad.”
“Her dad’s still living?”
“As far as I know. Or maybe he died and that’s what it’s about.”
“Is he eligible for parole?”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s been ... twenty ... twenty-eight years.”
“Chuck, what’s it going to do to her if he gets out of prison?”
The noise ... Stop ... Make it stop ... What? The phone. Tracy squinted, cursing the sunlight, and felt around on the sofa for the cordless handset. “Here we go.” She clicked the phone on, and mercifully, it stopped making that infernal noise.
“Ms. Ravenna? This is Glen Dillard. I wanted to see how you were, and see if you needed anything today.”
Dillard ...
The minister. Perfect. “Mr. Dillard. Is it tomorrow already?” Tomorrow. Then where ...? She raised her head until pain hammered it from all sides. Living room. Her living room. Good. Yesterday’s clothes. Bad. “What time is it?”
“Just after eleven. I woke you, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”
“That’s quite all right. I don’t expect you to have a lot of experience with drunks and hangovers.” She laid a hand across her eyes to block out the light more thoroughly. “This is Saturday, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Can Laurie and I bring you some lunch?”
“No ... no, thank you. I’ve humiliated myself in front of you more than enough already.”
“Ms. Ravenna, I’m more sympathetic that you know,” he said gently. “You have nothing to be ashamed of as far as I’m concerned.”
“So what kind of church do you run, one full of drunks and adulterers?”
“The kind you need.”
But don’t want. “Thank you for calling, Mr. Dillard. I need to shower and find something for my headache. Good day.” She clicked the phone off and dropped it onto the floor. Instead of a thud, though, it hit with a clink. Tracy opened one eye to see what caused the sound. A bourbon bottle was lying in the floor next to the phone. She glanced at the empty coffee table, looking for a glass. “Straight out of the bottle, apparently,” she muttered.
This was Saturday. So what happened yesterday, exactly? Jack? Where was Jack? Wait. It was Saturday. He was at Chuck’s. Chuck was here yesterday. He took her car keys. That part she remembered fairly well. She quit her job. There was something else, though.
She pulled herself up, and squinted around the living room, hoping something would trigger her memory. When that failed, she grabbed tightly to the coffee table and carefully stood up. Her briefcase lay in the floor at the end of the sofa. The briefcase. Something was in her briefcase. It came in the mail. The P.O. box ...
She walked over, steadying herself with each step and slowly reached down, picked the briefcase up and set it on the table. It was empty. What had she done with the contents? The kitchen. Now it was coming back. She picked up the mail after she dropped Jack off at daycare. She stuffed everything in the briefcase, but she read it in the kitchen. It should still be in there.
Holding on to the furniture and the walls, she made her way into the kitchen, and found the papers on the counter where Chuck stacked them yesterday. She glanced through them looking for an envelope. As soon as she saw it, she remembered.
Her hangover and trembling hands made it difficult to read. October 19. Parole hearing. Likely granted. Rehabilitated. No longer a threat. Her knees folded under her, and she slid down to the floor beside the cabinet. She didn’t have much time.
Bobbi opened the front door before her sister had a chance to ring the doorbell. “Thanks for coming on such short notice,”
“I’m glad to do it,” Rita said. “But it sounds like something’s up.”
“Kind of. Come and sit down for a minute.”
“This can’t be good.” Bobbi led Rita to the living room and took a seat on the sofa.
“Tracy has some issues.”
“That’s an understatement,” Rita muttered.
“She quit her job Thursday. Something, we don’t know what, set her off, and she scared Jack. He came to school upset Friday morning, and I got him to tell me enough to be worried.”
“You were worried as soon as he said, ‘my mom.’”
“You’re not helping,” Bobbi said.
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, I called Chuck, and for once, he listened. He took Glen and they went to Tracy’s house. Found her drunk. Looked like she’d been holed up there all day drinking.”
“Is she an alcoholic?”
“Probably.” Bobbi paused, making sure she had Rita’s attention before dropping the next sentence. “Chuck’s going back to check on her this afternoon ... and I’m going with him.”
“You’re not serious,” Rita said, her eyes wide in disbelief. “Why would you do that to yourself? You don’t owe her anything.”
“This is not my choice—”
“Is Chuck making you go? Where is he?” Rita craned her neck around looking for Chuck.
“It’s not Chuck. He was almost as surprised as you are. All the counsel I’ve gotten from people I respect, and what I’ve studied on my own, tells me that I have to forgive her. Sincerely and genuinely forgive her.”
“Has she ever apologized? Even to Chuck?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Has she?” Rita persisted.
“No.”
“Then you don’t have to forgive her. She’s not interested in forgiveness.”
“First of all, I don’t know that. I don’t know what’s going on inside her. If she felt any remorse, I don’t think she would ever tell anyone else.”
“She’s not remorseful,” Rita said flatly.
Bobbi cleared her throat loudly, and said, “Second ...”
“Turn off your teacher voice. I won’t say anything else.”
“Rita, it’s got nothing to do with her.”
“I take it back. I have to say something. That’s ridiculous. It has everything to do with her.”
Bobbi shook her head, and pointed at her own heart. “No, I have to love her and forgive her, just like I did with Chuck. Just like God did with me ... and with you.”
Rita sighed deeply. “Why does God keep doing this to you?”
“Glen says it’s because God’s got confidence I’ll do the right thing.”
“That explains why He’s doing it to you and not me,” Rita said with a smile. “You’re something else. I admire you.”
“Don’t. I should have done this seven years ago.”
“Hey, there’s Aunt Rita!” Chuck shepherded Shannon and Jack in from the deck. The children scrambled around the furniture to Rita and hugged her tightly.
“Did you bring Katelyn?” Shannon asked.
“Not today,” Rita answered, taking Shannon’s hands, “but I did bring a batch of cupcakes I need help decorating.”
“Jack, we gotta wash our hands!” Shannon exclaimed and took off for the downstairs bathroom.
“Are they brown cupcakes or white cupcakes?” Jack asked with his brow furrowed.
“Actually, they’re yellow,” Rita answered.
“Hmmm,” Jack said as he walked off to the bathroom. “I guess that’s close enough to white.”
“Mom’s out on the deck, reading,” Chuck said. “I think we’re going to have to send her home soon or else she’s going to run out of books.”
“Chuck, watch out for Bobbi,” Rita said. “I think Tracy gets a warped sense of joy out of twisting the knife she plunged into Bobbi’s heart.”
“That’s just a touch on the histrionic side,” Bobbi said.
“Don’t worry,” Chuck said to Rita. “I think Bobbi will catch Tracy so off-guard, we’ll be gone before she can come up with anything to say.”
Bobbi closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath, hoping that would settle her stomach and ease the flutter in her chest. She kept her eyes on the interior of Chuck’s car, not wanting to know how to get to Tracy’s house.
“Here’s her street,” Chuck said.
“Already? She lives close.” In the strikingly ordinary neighborhood, older homes with yards and trees lined the street. Maybe that was the draw, having a yard for Jack. However, children playing outside and the telltale signs of children, like bikes and swing sets, were all missing from the homes on Tracy’s block.
“This is it.” Chuck pulled over and turned off the car.
“I could have guessed.” The manicured landscaping and the Lexus were typical Tracy.
“Yeah, but the house doesn’t look like her, does it?”
“Is that part of her self-imposed witness protection program?”
“I just figured she wanted Jack to grow up in a normal house, normal neighborhood.”
“Then he nee
ds a normal mother to go with it.” Bobbi clutched her purse, and climbed out of the car.
“You’re not off to a very good start.” Chuck got out of the car and locked the door.
“I’m trying to get it out of my system before I go in.” Bobbi rounded the car and walked with him up to the porch, debating whether to take his hand. She opted not to risk antagonizing Tracy.
Chuck rang the bell, and then stepped back away from the door. “Yesterday, I couldn’t get her to come to the door until I threatened to have the police break it down.”
Moments later, they heard the lock turn, and Tracy opened the door. She was dressed in a long sleeved fitted t-shirt, sports pants, and cross-trainers that looked as if they’d never been out of the box. She wore a gold chain, but no watch or earrings today. Her hair was casually styled, and she wore full make-up. Clearly, the crisis had passed and she was back in control.
Shock flashed across her face when she saw Bobbi, but she quickly regained her poise. “Chuck, come in. Mrs. Molinsky, I’m sorry he dragged you out.”
“I asked to come, actually,” Bobbi said. She looked Tracy in the eye, and this time Tracy looked away first. “Can we start by calling each other by our first names? I’m Bobbi.” Tracy didn’t move, didn’t answer, so Bobbi tried again. “Jack is a wonderful little boy.”
“Where is he? He’s supposed to be with you.”
“My mother’s with him,” Chuck said. “He and Shannon are fine.”
His mother? Apparently mentioning Rita was too risky. In the entry hall hung a framed photograph of Jack, still with a round baby face, in short denim overalls, a polo shirt and brown leather sandals. His hair had a little wave then, but his smile was as broad and his eyes as deep and dark as they were now. “How old was he when this one was taken?”
“Three,” Tracy answered. “He had just turned three.”
“I’ll bet he talked early. He’s very articulate now. Brad talked early.”
Indemnity: Book Two: Covenant of Trust Series Page 25
