by Lydia Rowan
She’d fight him on it though. However complicated her feelings were toward her parents, he knew she wouldn’t leave them. In the long run, Cody didn’t know if they could be saved but today, right now, he would get them, and Blakely, out of this house and hope that it would be a first step for the Bishops to try and get better.
“Nice to see you again, ma’am, though not under these circumstances,” he said to Mrs. Bishop, voice easy and completely at odds with what was happening.
She gave a grudging nod of acknowledgment.
“Would you mind waiting outside with Blakely while me and Mr. Bishop talk?”
He didn’t turn his gaze from her mother, but he saw Blake from the corner of his eye, didn’t miss the tears that now streamed down her face. Her father saw them too, and Cody saw the first break in the older man’s facade. That was something he could use to his advantage. Maybe, on some level, Mr. Bishop wanted help though even if he did, Cody knew that pride would keep him from asking for it in front of his wife and daughter. But if they were alone, had a chance to talk man-to-man, he could get somewhere.
“Let me talk to him, Mayree,” he said gruffly.
Blake and her mother looked at Mr. Bishop and without further conversation, they set off to leave the men alone. Cody kept his eyes trained on Mr. Bishop, listening to the sound of the women’s footsteps and of the items they had stirred as they moved down the hallway. When he heard the front door slam, he took a tentative step toward Mr. Bishop.
“No one’s trying to embarrass you, but you can’t stay here, sir. And you know that,” Cody said, letting an edge bleed into his voice.
Mr. Bishop’s eyes flared with insult, but Cody didn’t back down. He wanted the man to come willingly, but he’d get him out by force if necessary. As sickly-looking as the man was, Cody thought it was a miracle that he wasn’t in worse shape. This house was a death trap, and it was only a matter of time before it claimed one or both of the Bishops. They might not see it, but everyone else, including Blake, did, and he didn’t want to imagine the pain and responsibility she’d feel if—when—that happened. But it wouldn’t happen today, not on his watch.
“Why can’t everyone just leave us alone? I’m fine, my wife is fine, and my home is fine.”
He’d started off forcefully but by the end of the sentence, Mr. Bishop had broken into hard, wet-sounding coughs that racked his frame. Cody went to step toward him, but the old man lifted a hand to keep him away and slowly, the coughing subsided. The man’s face was unreadable as he stared off into nothing. They stayed in that silence for so long that Cody felt the strain of trying to maintain his balance in the ever-shifting mass on the floor begin to take its toll, but he didn’t move.
“Mr. Bishop,” he said.
Finally, Blakely’s father responded, “I won’t be run from my home.”
“No one’s doing that, and I’ll make sure your things aren’t disturbed. But first thing’s first.”
The man hadn’t given in outright, but Cody could see his acquiescence. Poole would be proud of the way Cody had handled things if he was still speaking to him after the ass chewing Cody intended to deliver.
The older man nodded, and Cody made his way over. It was impossible to find a solid place to stand, but Cody offered his arm, which Blakely’s father used to brace himself as he stood. Ignoring the sour stench that the shifting items stirred, Cody began slowly, painstakingly, making his way toward the front door.
It took over fifteen minutes to reach the front door, Mr. Bishop’s age and illness slowing him as much as the clutter. By the time they stepped outside, both men were covered in sweat, breathing heavy with the exertion. He was in excellent shape, but one entry and exit from the house had been taxing for him. That the elderly Bishops did so on a regular basis was as mind-blowing as it was depressing.
As he stood on the porch, his eyes immediately went to Blakely, who stood next to the ambulance, her eyes puffy and red, but tears no longer flowing. The paramedics went to Mr. Bishop immediately and helped him onto the stretcher. Under the defiance, Cody could see the shame in the older man’s face.
He walked to Blakely, who refused to meet his gaze.
“The doctors might keep you overnight, sir, but you seem to be breathing better than earlier,” the EMT said.
Blakely’s mother, who stood next to the stretcher, looked relieved but the expression was short-lived.
“Mrs. Bishop, if you aren’t able to come home soon, is there somewhere you can go?” Cyrus Thornehill asked.
The implication of the question was clear, as was the intent of the expectant gaze the sheriff gave Blakely. Cody had known that the Bishops wouldn’t be back here anytime soon, but he hadn’t considered where they might go and as he did so now, Blakely’s did not seem like a viable choice.
Apparently the Bishops agreed, for as they loaded Mr. Bishop into the ambulance, Blakely’s mother looked at her, and then the sheriff.
“No,” she said, “there’s nowhere else.”
By the time the ambulance pulled off, tears again streamed down Blakely’s face.
••••
She blinked when she felt the strong arm slip around her shoulders and then the gentle brush against her face. Then she slammed her eyes shut, needing to block out the world around her, unwilling to see him after he’d seen this.
“Blakely, the EMT called Adult Protective Services,” Cyrus said, mercifully sparing her from having to look at Cody, at least for another moment.
She turned to Cyrus and nodded. And then, somehow finding her voice around the tight ball of tension that clogged her throat, she said, “I know. Is there a place for them?”
Cyrus kept his professional demeanor, and the sunglasses blocked his eyes, but the faint tic in his jaw gave the unspoken question away. Why can’t they stay with you? Cody probably wondered the same thing. Hell, some part of her even asked the question, tried to work out a way that such a thing would be possible.
But it wouldn’t, and as much as it shamed her, made her a hypocrite of the worst kind, Blakely knew that couldn’t happen. The gossamer threads of control that she only managed to hold would be snapped in an instant, leaving her untethered and sending her careening out of control. And she couldn’t let that happen. She loved them, but the cost of letting them infest her home, and her heart, was too high. She couldn’t pay it.
“Charity’s Wings downtown can take them for a while, but they’ll need someplace long-term until they can get this cleaned up,” he said.
She couldn’t contain the bitter laugh. “If cleaning up is a requirement, you’d better make long-term permanent,” she said.
He didn’t bother to correct her. “I have to get back to the station, but the ambulance should be at the medical center by now. Let me know if you need anything,” he said. And then, with a brisk nod, presumably directed at Cody, he got into the cruiser and drove down the road, dust flying in his wake.
Once he’d left, it hit her how quiet the place was, and the stillness was unnerving. She didn’t dare look back at the house and instead kept her eyes trained down the road, and though she couldn’t think of what to say, she put her arms around Cody’s waist and held him close, squeezed him as tight as she could, her face pressed against his chest. He hadn’t moved his arm from around her shoulders, so he pulled her against him and stroked up and down her back in slow, soothing motions, planting soft kisses against her head.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?” he asked, his voice sounding muffled from her head being buried in his chest.
She looked up then, before she could stop herself, and rather than the disgust or censure she’d thought she’d see, there was only question and concern. Not an ounce of the judgment that she was expert at rooting out.
“I should,” she said finally, though she could think of little she’d rather do less.
When she glanced back up at him, he smiled at her and then reached down to link his fingers with hers. He started walking, not qu
ite pulling her behind him, but damn close. She was so lost in thought that the walk passed without notice and, still dazed, she went to the driver’s side.
“I’ll drop you—”
“No. Let’s go,” he said firmly.
She didn’t argue, and set off toward the hospital, this ride silent as well. She drove across town to the medical center, and as they got closer, the tension that had ebbed just the slightest came back full force. This wasn’t her fault, but the guilt racked her all the same and wimp that she was, she hoped that Cyrus had broken the news about Adult Protective Services to her mother, spared her from that at least. She parked, but before she opened the door, Cody touched her hand, and when she looked at him, he squeezed it and gave her a bright smile. It didn’t help, but she appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.
A quick walk across the parking lot, a stop at the receptionist’s desk, and they were off, headed to the third floor. Blakely spotted her mother the moment the doors opened but if the other woman saw her, and Blakely suspected she had, she didn’t give any indication.
“Mama?” she said, and after a beat, she looked up. “How’s Daddy?”
“They say he’s good. Like I said he was all along.”
Blakely moved closer, lifted a hand that she promptly dropped when she saw the expression on her mother’s face.
“Did Cyrus Thornehill tell you about Adult Protective Services?” she asked, scorn marring her tone.
The relief Blakely felt was strong, the guilt that followed it stronger.
“He did. He said you could go to Charity’s Wings for a while if you need to,” she said, her voice timid, tentative, and revealing every inch of shame she felt.
“That he did,” her mother replied, her face quirked in the way it would be if she swallowed something distasteful but her eyes shimmering with disbelief, like she couldn’t quite grasp what had happened today or what it meant for tomorrow and the days after.
Blake understood the feeling. This needed to happen, had needed to happen for many years, but it was still a shock. And with the shock came the guilt and shame, feelings that she should have been used to by now but that still had the ability to choke the breath out of her. She stood awkwardly, the feel of Cody next to her the only thing keeping her on her feet. Then he put a big hand on her neck. She wanted to melt into his touch, let it soothe everything away, but the realization of what he’d seen, what he must think, kept her still. Maybe he could look past the house, wouldn’t be like all the others who thought that her parents’ problems reflected on her. But he’d never be able to look past the fact that she’d just abandoned them, that she’d let them go to a shelter before she took them in.
She stepped away, breaking the contact between them. The weight of his questioning stare felt heavy on her skin, but she didn’t dare look at him.
“Why don’t you sit and talk? I’ll go grab some water,” he finally said.
Don’t leave me! she wanted to scream, but she wouldn’t ask that of him, didn’t have a right to, so she bit her tongue and nodded, stopping herself from whimpering when she heard his retreat.
She blew out a deep sigh and then sat next to her mother.
“We can work on this, Mama. I’ll help,” she said.
“I think you’ve done enough.” The disbelief had fled her eyes and now her face was flat, closed off.
It wasn’t fair, she knew that, but the words and that distant expression hit their mark. Cody returned a few minutes later, tossing her a questioning glance. But she didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
••••
It was full dark by the time Cody pulled into Blakely’s driveway and he was exhausted. Those last hours at the hospital had been tense, nearly silent, but the ride to her house had been funereal, Blakely getting more and more distant with each passing second. She hadn’t even protested when he’d taken the keys from her hands, something that was only one of many clues as to her state of mind. That she seemed to be pretending that he wasn’t even there, was shutting him out, was another. But he wouldn’t let her, not if he could help it.
He would have pushed sooner had he not been somewhat preoccupied by his own thoughts. This morning had started out so promisingly, and not even Blake’s cryptic warnings had prepared him. But beyond the absolute disaster that was the Bishop homestead, and disaster was an understatement, the heavy emotions of the day had gotten to him. The Bishops weren’t bad people. They were sick, but seemed fundamentally decent, and some part of his heart went out to Mr. Bishop especially. Cody could only imagine the humiliation the man must have felt today. But he was angry for Blake, for what she’d had to endure, and he didn’t think there was any way he could accept their unwillingness to acknowledge the toll all this took on her.
And he was man enough to admit that he was afraid. They’d promised each other casual fun, but he’d come to care for Blakely deeply. He knew that her upbringing had left scars, but what if they were deeper than he’d seen? What if they made something more than casual fun impossible?
When he parked in her driveway, pulled the keys from the ignition, and handed them to her, she turned to him.
“Thank you. I’ll call you later,” she said mechanically.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” he responded, reaching out to grasp her chin.
She didn’t pull away, but he could tell she wanted to. “That won’t be necessary,” she said stiffly. “I’ll be fine.”
Clutching the keys tight as if they were a talisman, she got out of the car and headed into her house without saying another word. He followed, keeping close to her, and just managed to slip in before she slammed the door. She started and turned to him, lobbing a look of pure scorn at him.
“Leave,” she said, her voice flat but her eyes sparking with anger that animated her entire body. He stood tall in front of the door, and she clenched her teeth, giving him her most withering gaze. “Now,” she said, voice low in her throat.
“No,” he said.
“Please…” she said, pleading with her eyes and her voice.
“Blakely, what’s…?”
He trailed off as he looked up and processed what he was seeing. At some point during the day, his mind had started spinning with connections that hadn’t occurred to him before. She never let him into her house, and he’d prepared himself for the worst. After today, he understood all of her offhanded comments about the town and being a Bishop, and in a lot of ways, her secretiveness made sense. Hell, he still stacked his canned goods alphabetically because that was the way his sisters did it, so it was perfectly reasonable, even expected, that Blake might have picked up some of her parents’ habits, no matter how hard she tried to fight them.
When they’d been waiting at the hospital, he’d let his mind wander, had pictured how he’d enter her house and find her living room eerily reminiscent of her parents’. In his mind, the space wouldn’t yet have descended into utter madness, wouldn’t be filthy and packed to the roof, not yet anyway, but it wouldn’t be normal, not by a long shot. Maybe she’d have some junk mail or, given how varied and particular she was about her clothing, she’d have a problem with that, leave the laundry strewn about or whatever. But Blake was a fighter, so through the disorganization, he’d be able to see the struggle, see how she tried to keep the chaos at bay even if she wasn’t always entirely successful.
But there was none of what he’d imagined.
The hardwood floors gleamed in the moonlight. The rugs that lay atop them still had faint indentations where they had been crisscrossed with a vacuum. Next to the door stood a wooden desk, and when he examined it more closely, he noted assorted mail that lay on top, neatly organized. There wasn’t a scrap of paper on the desk, and even office supplies were arranged with precision, paper clips stacked in three rows of equal height, stapler angled in a way that couldn’t possibly be random.
And so it continued throughout the room, everything in place, not a dust bunny in sight. The flat-screen TV was so s
hiny that he could clearly see his reflection when he moved to stand in front of it, and when he looked back at the front door, he saw that the crystal doorknob and brass door kick plate shone equally bright. The tall bookcase was pristinely clean and organized, the books arranged by height, color, and thickness. Just looking at it exhausted him.
This room was an emotional battlefield, Blake’s fear of what she might become and her resolve to never let that happen living together side by side in perpetual struggle, neither strong enough to vanquish the other. This was Blakely, the clearest snapshot of her he could have gotten. And it suddenly made sense why she seemed to run hot and then cold, why she’d never let him in literally and metaphorically. How could she when so much of her went into staving off what, if the vigilance with which she kept her house was anything to go by, she thought was her inevitable fate?
When she looked at him again, the terror in her eyes took his breath away. He heard a faint whimper, but then she went silent, the effort she expended to clamp down her emotions visible. Then she stomped down the hall toward what he presumed was her bedroom and turned inside the last door at the end of the hall. He stared after her and listened to the opening and closing of drawers and then a moment later, the rush of water from the shower.
The weight of the day pressed down on him, but Cody tried to get himself to relax, took deep, calming breaths and tried to focus. She needed help, and she needed him. The state of her parents’ home, what she’d undoubtedly had to endure, the state of things now proved that. But she’d never admit it; the pride that always glinted in her eyes wouldn’t allow her to. Good thing he didn’t plan to ask for permission. He walked down the hall and sat next to her bedroom door, legs extended in front of him, his posture relaxed. He wasn’t content and he was tired as all hell but he was not willing to leave her like this.
