She thought of all the times she’d gone by that horrible bar, Whitey’s Tavern, on the way to the drug store or the grocery or on one of her late night walks when she couldn’t get to sleep, and seen David’s car in the parking lot. Poor David! That woman has made him so miserable that he goes there to escape, she thought. He shouldn’t have to live like that. He deserves more, so much more!
She remembered her son’s visit the day before. He’d looked so forlorn. There were lines etched at the corners of his eyes, lines that she’d never seen before. At one point, she could’ve sworn that she saw a tear slide down his cheek. Her heart ached for him. She pictured him as a little boy, always so active, running through the house and playing in the backyard. It wasn’t easy for him, she thought, growing up without a father and losing his twin brother at such a young age. But, in spite of all the grief, he’d managed to be a happy, carefree child, unlike the man she saw yesterday. And his unhappiness was all Ann’s fault!
The angrier she got, the harder she polished. By the time she reached the end of the hall, the woodwork gleamed. She stepped back to inspect what she’d done and, satisfied that she’d finished her work for the day, she gathered up her cleaning supplies and placed them on the utility cart that she used to wheel them from room to room. Without realizing it, she clenched her teeth as she pushed the cart down the hall toward the janitor’s closet.
After she’d put the supplies away, she locked the closet, retrieved her coat and purse from a hook in the vestibule and locked the heavy oak door behind her. A cold wind was blowing as she stepped outside. She fastened the top two buttons of her long, quilted coat and tied her scarf on her head. Then she reached into her coat pockets and pulled out her leather gloves. She’d had frostbite as a child and, without the gloves, the tips of her fingers would be numb by the time she got home. The temperature had dropped drastically in the hours that she’d been in the church.
As she walked the few blocks to her house, her thoughts drifted back to her conversation with Ann that morning. She’d tried so hard to talk sense into the girl but, evidently, she hadn’t succeeded. Ann’s words echoed in her head. “Your son has a problem with alcohol and you’re too blind to see it.”
Next, she’ll be insisting that David go to Alcoholics Anonymous, she thought. She could feel her blood pressure rising at the thought of it. She hated AA; in her opinion, it was a cult. An AA meeting was where her husband had met “the whore,” as she privately referred to the woman, an evil person who had thought nothing of destroying her marriage and taking David’s father away from him. Memories of that time consumed her with rage. The angrier she got, the faster she walked. Her eyes watered from the cold air as she hurried up the walk to her small, cottage style house and unlocked the front door.
She went into the living room, flipped the wall switch and the two end table lamps came on. She took off her gloves and stuffed them in the pockets of her coat. Then she hung her coat and scarf in the closet and went down the hallway and into the spare bedroom, the room she still thought of as the “boys’ room.” She sat down at the foot of one of the twin beds and sighed. Her shoulders slumped as she gazed at the framed photos of her two sons that hung on the wall.
She reached down to take off her shoes and a pain shot down her arm. “Damn!” she exclaimed. She cringed as she rolled her knee high support hose down to her ankles and pulled them off one at a time. Arthritis? Bursitis? What did it matter? It was all just part of getting older. Some days, like today, the pain was horrendous and, other days, she didn’t have so much as a twinge.
Surely, the sudden drop in temperature has something to do with it, she reasoned. Her body needed time to adjust and in October, in Cincinnati, the weather fluctuated constantly. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, it could go from warm and sunny to damp, bone chilling cold. Well, it’s a good thing David can’t see me now, she thought, remembering what he’d said when he’d visited her the day before. “Easy, Mother. You don’t know your own strength.” With all the problems he has, the last thing I want him to do is worry about me.
Bone-tired, her whole body aching, she got into bed, fell back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Within seconds, she was asleep and dreaming. In her dream, her six-year-old twin sons, David and Daniel, were playing in the backyard. It was a warm, sunny spring day. The grass was a vivid green and the blue sky was cloudless. Daffodils, tulips and hyacinths were in bloom in her rock garden, creating a lovely rainbow of color. The boys were laughing, taking turns going down the slide that their father had built for them. She smiled as she slept.
Suddenly, the dream changed. It was a chilly, overcast day and the boys were swinging on their swing set. David was dragging his feet in the dirt, barely moving, but Daniel kept going higher and higher and higher. She saw herself at the kitchen window, washing the dishes and watching them. She became apprehensive as she saw how high Daniel was going. She bolted from the house and, as she rounded the corner, Daniel saw her and yelled, “Watch me, Mommy! I can fly!” He jumped from the swing. Frantically, she ran to him but it was too late. The little boy had hit his head on a large rock in her garden and died instantly.
She awoke with tears streaming down her face. The dream had felt so real. How horrible to relive the worst day of your life in your dreams, she thought. As if it weren’t living hell when it happened. As if it wasn’t with her every day of her life since. She remembered how, the day after Daniel’s funeral, she’d gone into the backyard and furiously yanked the flowering plants, roots and all, from her garden. She’d filled a wheelbarrow with the stones and had them hauled away. The garden had taken her son from her and she’d needed to destroy it.
She wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her sweater and slowly sat up. She looked around the room and saw the bookshelves and pennants that lined the walls, remnants of David’s last years at home. But in her mind she remembered all the toys and stuffed animals that were once there, the things that David and Daniel had both treasured.
After a few minutes, she slowly, painfully sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She sat there for a minute, resting, and then winced in pain as she stood up. She limped over to the small dresser in a corner of the room and opened the top drawer. Reaching into the drawer, she pulled out her rosary beads, two white tapered candles, two brass candleholders, a pack of matches and her Bible. She placed the candles on top of the dresser.
She lit the candles, one for each of her sons, went over and sat down on the edge of one of the beds to read. She had read the Bible every day for as long as she could remember. She held the Holy Book with both hands, opening it carefully because the stitching was coming apart and the pages were falling out. After she’d read for several minutes, she set the Bible aside and picked up her rosary beads.
She made the sign of the cross and whispered the words to the Apostle’s Creed, “I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth … .” Then, holding the first bead, she recited the Lord’s Prayer and, for the next several minutes, she said either a Hail Mary or the appropriate prayer as she worked her way through the string of beads.
When she was finished with her prayers, she stood up, went back over to the dresser, extinguished each of the candles and carefully placed her rosary beads and the other items back in the drawer. She folded her hands and prayed: “Dear God, please bless and protect Daniel and David. Keep Daniel safe beside You and give me the power to do whatever it takes to make David happy again. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”
Chapter 17
ANN WAS STRAIGHTENING UP the living room when she heard the sound of a car’s engine revving toward the rear of the house. She went over to the front window and looked out just as Tina, Olivia’s psychic, backed out of the driveway in her little red sports car. No wonder I didn’t know she was here, Ann thought. I didn’t see her car. I wonder why she parked in the back.
She watched the car drive down the street until it was out of sight. I think that woman is taking ad
vantage of Olivia, she thought. I see her car here at least once a week. I know she’s not doing this out of the goodness of her heart. I’ll bet she’s charging Olivia a small fortune. I was skeptical about her before, but meeting her today confirmed my suspicions. I think she’s a fake, that she’s only after Olivia’s money.
It’s hard to believe that there are so many con artists these days who prey on the elderly, she thought. There’s every type of scam imaginable, from home improvement rip-offs to bogus investment opportunities: all ways to rob people of their hard earned money, and, in many cases, their life’s savings. They consider people who are in their seventies, eighties and nineties to be easy marks.
The saddest thing, she thought, sighing, is that so many older people have medical problems that require them to be on medications, some of which cloud their thinking and their judgment. That makes it even easier for the scumbags of the world to take advantage of them. I’ll never understand how those people can live with themselves when they profit by stealing from senior citizens. How do they sleep at night?
Well, Olivia may not be on medication but she’s vulnerable in another way. She so desperately wants to contact Lawrence’s father that her vision is distorted too. I know I made it clear today how I feel about psychics, and I know it’s none of my business, but I wish there was a way to make Olivia see that Tina’s a fraud. She’s too good a person to be the victim of someone like that.
As she picked up Davey’s toys, she felt uneasy, even jittery. She took an armload of toys into her son’s bedroom and, as she lifted the lid of the toy box and tossed his stuffed teddy bear and several Hotwheels cars in, she noticed that her hands were shaking. What’s wrong with me? she wondered.
She plopped down on the edge of her son’s bed. Well, let’s see, she thought. She held out her left hand and counted off on her fingers. One: is it worrying about Olivia that’s got me so uptight? Two: or Tina’s prediction of danger that’s getting to me? No, she decided, that’s ridiculous; I don’t believe in all that supernatural stuff. Three: maybe I’m just nervous because I’m starting a new job tomorrow. Four: or, maybe I’m still reeling from the reaction David had when I told him about Davey’s ADHD. Five: then there’s the constant fear because there’s a maniac loose in the neighborhood. I was worried about that before but, ever since this afternoon when I got that strange biblical quote, I’ve been even more anxious. She glanced down at her hand. Well, no wonder I’m so stressed. It’s most likely all that plus David’s drinking and the problems we’re having in our marriage that’s made me feel like this, she reasoned. It’s all too much! I feel like I’m on major overload.
There has to be a way to deal with all this, she thought, but I’ve wracked my brain and driven myself half crazy trying to figure it out and I still don’t know what to do. I need some answers. I wish someone could help me find them. Maybe Father Andrew was right. Maybe it would be a good idea to talk to someone professional. I need to take some action. I can’t just sit around, waiting for things to resolve themselves. I have to do something.
She got up, went into the kitchen and dug down to the bottom of her purse, retrieving the business card the priest had given her. It couldn’t hurt to call, she decided. She lifted the phone’s receiver and dialed the number. A secretary answered on the second ring and, after Ann explained that Father Andrew had referred her, the woman told her that Dr. Thatcher had a cancellation for two thirty and Ann could have the appointment, if she wanted it.
She glanced up at the clock: two p.m. She’d have thirty minutes to get there. She knew exactly where the doctor’s office was, a couple of streets over, on Glenmore. “I’ll be there,” she told the secretary.
“There are a few forms we’ll need you to fill out and, of course, be sure to bring your insurance card,” the woman instructed.
Ann hung up the phone. Would she be able to get there and back before the kids got home from school? she wondered. No, probably not, she instantly realized. She scribbled a short note to Danielle, instructing her that, if she wasn’t there when they got home, she and Davey should go upstairs and stay with Olivia until she came to get them. She placed the note on the kitchen table where her daughter would be sure to see it. She grabbed her coat and purse and was about to walk out the door when the phone rang.
“Should I answer it or shouldn’t I answer it?” she asked aloud. She stood there for a few seconds, staring at the phone before deciding to pick it up. She smiled when she heard her sister’s voice.
“Marnie, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’m so glad you called. I’ve been wanting to talk to you … but I can’t talk now. I have an appointment and I can’t be late. I was just leaving.”
“Ann, I’ve been trying to reach … .”
“I’m sorry. I hate to do this but I really don’t have time to talk now. I promise, I’ll call you as soon as I possibly can but I’ve gotta go right now. Love ya. Bye.”
Ann hung up the phone and rushed out the door, locking it behind her. She started to walk away and then turned around and jiggled the doorknob to be sure it was locked. She unzipped her purse, threw her keys in it and quickly zipped it back up. She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder and, taking a deep breath, she hurried toward the sidewalk.
As she passed the corner, she considered taking a bus. The Metro bus service was very reliable within the city limits, which included Westwood. Usually, she could walk to the places she needed to go. The church and the grocery store were only a few minutes from the house and, with the kids’ school only a few blocks away, she felt comfortable letting them walk to school with some of the other kids on the street. Still, with only one car which David needed for work, it was nice to know that she could get a bus to anywhere in the city at just about any time.
I’m not taking the bus today though, she decided. I’m going to walk. It’s good exercise and I sure can afford to lose a few pounds. As she passed the bus stop and rounded the corner onto Montana Avenue, the wind whipped against her, blowing her hair straight up. My God, it’s gotten cold, she thought, putting her hands over her ears.
She turned her back to the wind and, as she proceeded backwards up the hill, she pulled her scarf from around her neck and tied it around her head, covering her ears. Instantly, she felt better. She loved the multicolored knit scarf that her grandmother had crocheted for her the year before she died. See, Nana, she thought, after all these years, you’re still taking care of me. Her nose started to run and she wiped it with the back of her gloved hand. Boy, am I going to look great by the time I get there, she thought.
She continued up the hill, stopping about halfway up to catch her breath. She pushed back the sleeve of her coat and glanced down at her wristwatch; it was two fifteen. She forced herself to get moving again. She let out a long sigh of relief as she turned the corner onto Glenmore Avenue and spotted the Westwood Professional Building.
Chapter 18
SUSAN THATCHER SAT AT HER DESK in the Westwood Professional Building where she and several other doctors and dentists had their offices. She clicked her ballpoint pen and wrote “October 29th” at the top of a sheet of blank paper. She wanted to jot down a few notes about the counseling session she’d just finished while it was still fresh in her mind. She tapped her pen on the paper as she paused for a moment to organize her thoughts.
Her client, who had left only moments before, was definitely making progress, she decided. Jane Banks, a plain woman in her early sixties, had lived with her physically and emotionally abusive husband for over forty years. The effects of those years were evident in the lines on her face and the sadness and fear in her eyes.
Susan thought back to the first time Jane had come to see her in late August. The temperature outside was in the high eighties that day and the humidity was horrendous, she remembered. Yet Jane had worn a long sleeved, gray turtleneck top and charcoal knit pants. She had on dark sunglasses, which she left on for most of the session, and there were tiny beads of perspiration on h
er forehead. It took almost the full fifty minutes before Jane felt comfortable enough with her to remove the glasses. She could still see the bruised and blackened eyes that looked across the desk at her pleading for help.
What had finally pushed Jane to the point of seeking therapy after all those years of abuse, she had yet to discover. What she did know was that, after only two months of counseling, the woman had gained enough strength and confidence in herself to leave the bastard and begin to take charge of her life. She leaned back in her chair and smiled. Days like today, she thought, are why I became a psychologist.
Knowing that her next client would be there any minute, she reached into the middle drawer of her desk and pulled out a compact. She looked in the mirror, checked her makeup and then closed the compact and put it back in the drawer. She was fifty-three years old, five foot ten and thought of herself as attractive rather than pretty. Her beauty didn’t come naturally, as it did to some women. It was the result of impeccable grooming and a highly developed sense of style.
She had short blonde hair that she paid to have professionally cut and highlighted regularly, as much to cover the gray now as to add interest to the dishwater blonde hair she’d been born with. She had her nails done every week and her eyebrows waxed at least once a month. She was careful to maintain her weight by watching her diet and with visits to the health club three times a week. It took a lot of work to make up for what nature hadn’t given her.
Still, with all that maintenance, which she had to admit, had paid off in how she looked and felt, after thirty years of what she thought was a happy marriage, her husband had left her for a younger woman. She tried hard to fight the bitterness and resentment she felt. But it was easy to give advice to clients and much more difficult to take your own advice. She worked very hard to control her emotions because she didn’t want those negative thoughts to show up as nasty lines and wrinkles on her face. So far, although her features were unremarkable, thanks to her strict beauty regimen and the wonders of modern cosmetics, she’d managed to conceal most of what the years had done.
Mixed Messages (A Malone Mystery) Page 9
