by Luanne Rice
Skye, a killer.
Dear God, Augusta thought. The pain in her own family. She bowed her head, wiped her tears. How could she not have known how better to help? Her three girls, sisters looking after each other. Caroline, the surrogate mother. Thank God for her, that the others hadn’t had to endure it all alone—their real mother too selfish and cowardly to protect them.
At the top of the back stairs, Augusta paused. She leaned against the banister, her arms full of white towels. She felt like a tired old washerwoman.
The door to Skye’s studio was shut tight. Augusta stared at it. This was the moment she feared. When she would fling open her daughter’s door, walk in, and discover Skye drunk.
Augusta straightened her spine. She took a deep breath and put an expression of put-upon ditziness on her face. She’d walk in complaining loudly that the world would never know about the mothers of sculptors, all the extra work they did to make sure their daughters could sculpt freely with clean hands.
She pushed the door open. She stepped inside. And her heart stopped just as Skye screamed.
“My God!” she said, dropping the towels.
There was Skye, blood streaming from her nose, while Simon stood over her, breathing like a bull. He held her from behind, and Augusta could see that he had hurt her. He had his pants undone, his belt trailing to the floor.
“Leave us, Augusta,” Simon said. “This is between me and my wife.”
“Skye?” Augusta asked again, ignoring him. She grabbed one of the clean towels and began walking toward her daughter. Was this a bad fight or something worse? Was he about to rape her?
Skye’s nose was crooked. A lump was starting to swell under her left eye. Augusta crouched beside her, examining her eyes, stroking her hair. “Did he hit you?” Tears were leaking from Skye’s eyes. Enraged, Augusta turned to Simon. “Did you hit her? So help me, Simon, if you…”
She glimpsed Simon’s face. How ugly it looked, all contorted and red, the veins on his neck standing out like cords. His teeth were bared like a tiger’s, and Augusta felt the rush of animal instinct herself. The hair on her neck stood up straight. She remembered feeling this way just once before: when James Connor had come into her kitchen and threatened her children.
Augusta put herself between Simon and Skye. She faced him head-on, their eyes met, and she saw the blow coming. She wasn’t sure whether Simon was aiming for her or for Skye, but she held up her hands to protect them both. She heard Skye cry out, and the word “Nooooo!” lingered in the air, the whistle of a locomotive rounding a long curve before entering the tunnel.
It was Augusta he was aiming for, and he connected with a thud and a snarl. Augusta heard it as much as felt it, Simon’s fist connecting with the side of her head, and her other senses were alive as well, she smelled and tasted her own fear, and she saw Skye, her baby daughter, her truest artist and purest spirit, pick up a pair of scissors.
“Skye,” Augusta tried to say, but her brain couldn’t push the name into her mouth. “Skye.” Don’t, darling, she wanted to say. Don’t. Don’t. Augusta felt herself slipping away, the words gargling in spit or blood. She might have been blacking out or she might have been dying, but for that moment, with all her heart, she didn’t care. All she wanted to do was protect Skye. Protect her now, as she had been unable to protect her fourteen years before.
Unable to speak or act, Augusta Renwick lay crumpled on the floor of Skye’s studio, powerless to protect her daughter from the forces that swirled around her family, and as she drifted into a place she had never been before, she saw Skye, a howl on her bloodied face, stab Simon Whitford through the heart.
THE LIFESTAR HELICOPTER FLEW JOE CONNOR AND SAM Trevor down the Sound to Coastline General Hospital. Dan drove Caroline by launch and truck, and she arrived at the ICU frantic and terrified. A nurse told her they were both going into surgery, that she had no details yet. Uneasily, Caroline settled down to wait.
After an hour she asked for Peter, but they told her he was busy with another family elsewhere in the hospital. She tried to call Clea, then Skye, but no one was home.
The air was too cold. The orange vinyl chair stuck to the backs of her legs. She rose every time a doctor came through the door. The doctors wore loose green cotton scrubs, their surgical masks pulled below their chins, weary looks in their eyes. They spoke to the waiting families, explaining the procedures and answering questions. Caroline watched the emotions in those families’ faces, feeling her own hands ice cold with worry.
Finally a young physician came looking for her.
“Are you Caroline?” she asked.
Caroline stepped forward. “Yes,” she said, reading the doctor’s nametag.
“You’re Joe’s wife? Sister?” Dr. Nichols asked, looking at her notes.
“Neither,” she said. “But I was with them when it happened. I’m his friend.”
“I see,” Dr. Nichols said.
“Will they be okay?”
“Yes. Joe’s out of surgery now. He’ll need more work to repair the muscle damage, but he can take care of most of that when he goes home. He’s from”—she checked her form—“Miami?”
“Yes,” Caroline said, swallowing. “How’s Sam?”
“Almost out of the woods, but not quite. He lost a great deal of blood. We’re pumping more in right now. He’s a lucky boy. Another twenty minutes and he wouldn’t be here at all. He’s a regular little bulldog.”
“Bulldog?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm,” the doctor said, checking her notes. “He woke up from the worst head injury I’ve seen all summer and wouldn’t let us give him anything until he’d asked about Joe. Had to know how his brother was.” She smiled. “Joe’s the same. He’s in recovery right now, wanting to know when he can see Sam.”
“Brothers,” Caroline smiled, thinking of her sisters.
“Joe also wants to know when he can see you.”
“Am I allowed in?” she asked. “I thought only family—”
“He has you down as next of kin,” Dr. Nichols said, smiling. “Go on in.”
Joe was asleep. He lay on the gurney, covered with a cotton blanket. The recovery room was kept cool, and Caroline saw him shivering. She asked the nurse for another blanket. The nurse smiled, checked Joe’s shoulder, then covered him. The bandage was massive, pure white, stark against his tan skin. The slight pressure of the nurse’s fingers was too much, and Joe flinched from the pain.
His eyelids fluttered open. Caroline leaned forward, touched his cheek. His eyes were bloodshot, cloudy from the anesthesia. Seeing Caroline, he smiled. A shiver shook his body, and he clenched his teeth, waiting for it to pass.
“Sam,” he said hoarsely.
“He’s okay,” Caroline said. “The doctor said they’re giving him blood, he’s asking for you.”
“He’s okay,” Joe said, closing his eyes, latching on to the important part. “Alive and okay.” The nurse returned with a shot. She sent the pain medication into Joe’s already-inserted IV—speeding soothing relief quickly into his veins.
“Sleep,” Caroline said, touching his cheek. She kissed him, feeling the two-day growth; waking up at her house that morning, he hadn’t shaved. The memory pierced her heart, and she kissed him again.
“Don’t go yet,” Joe said sleepily. “Okay?”
Caroline stayed. She watched him fall asleep, sitting beside him until the nurse told her she had to leave. Standing in the hallway, Caroline closed her eyes and said a prayer. She heard someone call her name. When she opened her eyes to look, she saw Peter standing there. She didn’t think there could be anything worse than seeing Joe so hurt, but there was.
“Come with me,” he said, putting his arm around her. “Something happened; your mother is downstairs.”
Clea met her outside the emergency room entrance. Red geraniums bloomed in tall stone pots. Two police cars were parked at the curb, and the officers stood beside their cars, talking. Three nurses were taking a br
eak, leaning against the brick wall and smoking.
“See the police?” Clea asked. “They’re here to talk to Skye.”
“Skye?” Caroline asked, shocked. Seeing Joe upstairs already had her completely off balance. “Peter said Mom—”
“Simon beat her, Caroline. She told me he tried to rape her. When you see her—”
“Where is she?”
“Inside,” Clea said, pointing toward the emergency room. “Mom got between them, and Simon hit Mom and knocked her out. Then Skye went after him with a pair of scissors. She hardly hurt him at all—it was self-defense—but it’s awful,” Clea said, her eyes wide. “The police—”
“They want to arrest Skye?” Caroline asked, her heart pounding.
Clea looked at Caroline and wiped her eyes. “They want to question everyone. To them it’s just a domestic disturbance.”
Suddenly the day became too much for Caroline. She had been holding up well, but now she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She thought of Joe and Sam, her mother and Skye, and she leaned back against the brick wall with her eyes still covered.
“Being right there,” Clea said, putting her arms around Caroline. “Seeing them right after the accident must have been terrible.”
Caroline shook her head.
“I’m glad I was there,” she said. “Joe asked for me, Clea. You’re used to it, having Peter and the kids. Being the one someone asks for when they’re hurt and scared, but, Clea…”
Clea gazed at Caroline, waiting for her to catch her breath.
“Joe looked for me on the boat. I saw him the minute they brought him up. He watched me while I was trying to help Sam.”
“Of course he did,” Clea said. “There’s no one better, Caroline.”
“He listed me as next of kin.”
“He did?”
“Yes.” Caroline looked at the sky. “Here at the hospital. They came to find me in the waiting room because Joe had put my name on the form. But he’s leaving, Clea. As soon as he gets better, he’s going to Greece.” She tried to laugh.
“What?”
“Isn’t it funny? That he’s the one leaving? I finally want to stay put, and Joe’s getting on a plane.”
Clea knew there was nothing she could say. She just stood there, knowing that Caroline needed to feel all of the complex emotions roiling inside of her.
Caroline pushed off the wall. She linked arms with Clea. She swallowed her fear and walked with her sister straight into the emergency room. She asked the nurse on duty where to find Skye and Augusta; the nurse told her Augusta was having a CT scan and Skye was being questioned by the police. They were just about to head for the waiting room, when Caroline caught sight of Simon being led into one of the examining cubicles.
He wore a flimsy hospital gown. He stood at the far end of the emergency room, and to reach him, Caroline had to walk past many other patients, doctors, and nurses. He flinched at the sight of her. His skinny arms snaked out of the gown; his stick legs looked bony and pathetic. He had a pitiful expression in his beady eyes, and Caroline stood right in front of him, forcing him to look at her.
“Hello, Simon,” she said in a normal voice.
“Hello, Caroline,” he said warily.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He pulled down the front of his hospital gown, revealing a square white bandage just below his collarbone. “Look what your sister did,” he said. “She stabbed me.”
“But you’re walking. You’re on your feet,” Caroline said, trying to control the rage in her heart.
“They stitched me up,” he said.
“Look at me, Simon,” she said, tilting her head back to look up into his bloodshot eyes. “I’m taller than Skye.”
“So? She stabbed me!”
“I’m taller than my mother.”
“You’re crazy, Caroline. You know that? Every frigging one of you is out of—”
“You hurt them,” Caroline said, dropping her voice and reaching up to touch his chin. She wanted to choke the pathetic sneer off his ugly face.
“You hurt my sister and mother,” she said again. “They’re small women, Simon. They’re wonderful, and they’ve both shown you more love than you ever deserved, and you put them both in this hospital.”
“They attacked me,” he said, trying to push her hand away.
“Attacked you?” Caroline asked.
“Crazy bitches.”
With that, Caroline snapped. She jumped on Simon and began pounding him with her fists. She yanked his black hair, she clawed his evil eyes. She pictured him going after Skye, hitting her mother, and she saw blood. She heard her own cries, felt her blows connecting against his chest, the chest of a monster.
“Were you trying to rape my sister?” she screamed.
“Lady,” a loud voice said. She felt herself being pulled back, and she looked into the broad face of a hospital security guard.
“Fuck you, Caroline,” Simon said, scrambling back.
“Hey, are you all right?” a young nurse asked, a concerned look in her face. Caroline thought she was talking to Simon, until she saw the nurse looking at her.
“Call the fucking cops,” Simon said. “I want her arrested.”
“He hurt my mother and sister,” Caroline said, staring at him.
“I need pain medication,” Simon said. “My chest is on fire.”
“Relax,” the nurse said curtly. “Your doctor will see you soon.”
Then, taking Caroline’s arm, she led her toward the waiting area. “Leave it to the police,” the nurse said. “If my mother and sister landed in here, I’d want to kill the guy too. But then you’d be in trouble, and who would that help?”
“No one,” Caroline said. She was shaking. She hoped she had hurt Simon badly. She felt no remorse or regret for attacking him, only a desire to have hit him harder. Looking up, she saw Clea coming toward her.
“Can’t I leave you alone for one minute?” Clea asked.
“No,” Caroline said.
“You’re going to get in trouble,” Clea said. “I’d prefer not to visit you in jail.”
“You’re just mad you didn’t hit him first.”
“Did you connect?”
“I think so. My fist hurts.”
“That’s a good sign,” Clea said, smiling.
Caroline shook her sister’s hand, and they settled down to wait for news about all the people they loved.
Sam’s head pounded. A thousand whales were slapping their flukes on the surface of his skull. Banging their tails pow. Whales’ tails on the brain. He hadn’t felt this bad since a sailing accident at age eight. He lay in his hospital bed, staring at a TV he couldn’t see. He had his glasses, but when he put them on, his head hurt worse. When he took them off he saw three of everything, as murky as objects underwater.
Someone was coming into his room. A short, fat nun. A midget as wide as she was tall. Sam fumbled for his glasses, wanting to see her better. The nun had a very deep voice.
“What the hell are you doing, sitting up?” the voice asked. It was Joe.
“The nurse said I could.”
“Bullshit. You’re supposed to be flat on your back for another twenty-four hours.”
“Look who’s talking!” Sam said. He slid his glasses on, wedging the eyepieces under the bandage. There was his brother, sitting in a wheelchair. “You’re supposed to be in surgery again today, getting your arm sewed on right.”
“I already did, smart guy. First thing this morning. It’s why they’re making me sit in this thing. So I don’t keel over.” Standing up, he gave a macho stretch and pushed the chair away. “How do you feel?”
“Great. You?”
“Great.”
The brothers smiled at their lies. Bowled over by the emotion, by how close they had come to death, they stared at each other.
They shook hands, and it turned into more of a clasp—the closest they would let themselves come to a hug. They were band
aged and bruised, broken open and stitched back. They had each nearly died trying to save the other. Gazing at each other now, they seemed to be taking inventory, making sure the other was in one piece.
Sam choked down a lump in his throat. Joe had his arm all bandaged, in a sling, pressed tight against his chest. Even in his hospital gown he had that tough-guy look that Sam in his wildest dreams would never have. A pretty blond nurse came in to check Sam’s blood pressure, but at the sight of Joe, she lost interest. She ended up adjusting Joe’s sling. Joe just stood there, curling his lip at her, looking mean to hide the fact he had nearly cried.
“Joe, you know you ought to be sitting in that chair,” the nurse said, dimpling. She pulled Joe’s hand, and he pulled back. “Just because they didn’t use general anesthesia this morning doesn’t mean your body isn’t weakened. Now, sit!”
Joe just shook his head. He did it politely, but with a definite “get out of here” subtext in his baby-blues. The nurse blushed, patted his arm, forgot all about the task she was supposed to perform on Sam.
“So,” Sam said, watching her leave the room. “What was that you were trying to say to me before the wreck collapsed?”
“Say to you? I was thanking you for trying to stick your air in my mouth.”
“No, before that. Before you practically strangled yourself with your air hose, trying to bludgeon the shark. It was a blacktip, by the way. Rare for northern waters, but certainly not a danger to man. Actually, I enjoyed observing it.”
“Bullshit. It was a mako. Worst shark in this region.”
“Blacktip.”
“Going straight for your jugular.”
Sam shook his head. “Harmless species. But thanks anyway.”
“Damn biologist.” Joe said. “You’re welcome. Thanks for the air.”
“Anytime. So.” Sam took a deep breath. He pictured Joe before he entered the wreck. Treading water, grinning widely, mouthing the words Black Hall. For those first bad hours, lying unconscious or close to it, Sam had basked in the salvation of thinking that his brother had made him a promise.
