Travis raised his head and looked at her. Beatrice and Arthur Fulton had lived on Spring Street for a lot of years, and when he and Annie were kids she often had a smile and a wave for him when he came to the Turners’ house. She was a sweet lady, and trying her best to calm him down, but he didn’t want to be placated. He could feel himself rapidly filling with anger. With fury.
“What was my mother doing at the house, Mrs. Fulton? What did you hear?” He grabbed hold of her hand.
“Honey, your mama’s not—” Beatrice started to say. She must have seen the ferocity in Travis’s eyes, because she sighed and amended, “Your mama seems to have some troubles, and I think she might need to see someone, you know, professionally.”
“Christ. Why did she have a knife? How badly is Mary hurt?” Travis gripped her fingers so hard, Beatrice winced. He mumbled an apology and released her. “Where’s Mary right now?”
“Well, I expect she’s getting her shoulder looked after, honey. It wasn’t bad, kind of shallow, I suppose you’d say. It looked a lot worse than it is, I promise you.”
Just then Annie came tearing around the corner, her face streaked with tears. He scrambled to his feet and caught her as she flung herself at him, one hand immediately reaching for Hank.
“Shh, he’s all right, Annie. He’s going to be all right.” Travis went from helpless boy to strong protector as he held Annie. Her breath snagged on a sob.
Beatrice whispered, “I’ll go find your mama, Annie,” and she tiptoed out, passing a weary-looking doctor in a rumpled white lab coat.
He looked at them hovering over Hank. “I’m Doctor Bledsoe. And you’re no doubt this young man’s folks, right?” They nodded as Bledsoe hastened to assure them, “He’s going to be fine. The worst of it was a dislocated knee. Sometimes they can be tricky. His arm is broken but it was a clean break. Should knit back together well. He has a cracked rib and some colorful bruises. But all in all, your son was lucky. It could have been a lot worse.”
“Lucky. You call this lucky? I want to talk to my mother. She’s the cause of this. Where is she?” Travis started forward blindly, beside himself with fury, and Annie wrapped her arms around him, putting herself in his path. His eyes glittered down at her. “Let me go, Annie. She’s my mother, and she could have killed our son. I have to talk to her.”
“Travis, just wait—” Annie wouldn’t let go.
“I want to talk to her!”
“Not like this, you won’t.” Bledsoe retorted. “She’s my patient too, regardless of what she’s done. Right now she’s under police escort. She’s not going anywhere. They’re trying to get the story out of her, son, and you need to let them do their job.”
He checked Hank’s chart, adjusted the IV drip. “Now, your boy is going to be sore for a few days. I’d like to keep him overnight at the very least, as he’s going to be sleeping a lot and I want to check on him often to make sure he’s not in too much pain. I can prescribe a gentle painkiller that’ll make him sleepy, and really that’s the best thing for him, anyhow. Young bones have a lot of flexibility to them, you know. If everything looks good, you can take him home tomorrow afternoon.”
“We want to stay. Can we stay?” As Annie slowly released him, Travis cupped his hand protectively over Hank’s bandaged chest.
“I’ll have one of those reclining chairs brought in. No sense moving the boy into a regular room, anyhow. They’re on the cramped side. Better to keep him down here.” Bledsoe replied.
He moved toward the open doorway but turned and cautioned, “No hysterics, Mr. Quincy. Not on my shift or anyone else’s, you hear? There’ll be time enough for confrontation, later.”
As the doctor’s steps echoed down the hallway, Travis slumped into the chair closest to the hospital crib. “God. I don’t know what—I can’t think, Annie! Why would my mother do this?”
“I don’t know.” She bent to him, curled her arms around him, resting her cheek against his hair. “I just don’t know. But we’re going to find out.” She brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Stay with him, okay? I’ve got to find my mama.”
“I’m here, honey.” Mary appeared in the doorway, dressed in her usual blue jeans, a short hospital gown covering her to the waist. She looked exhausted but steady. Susan stood behind her, a supporting arm about her waist.
“Mama.” Annie rushed to her side, her hands fluttering as if unsure where to place them without hurting her further. Mary got hold of all ten fingers and pulled Annie into a careful embrace. Annie promptly burst into tears.
“I’m all right! I am.” She lifted Annie’s face to hers and gave her a reassuring smile, which Annie couldn’t return. Mary glanced over her shoulder at the crib where Hank lay. “Poor little boy. He’s had a rough day, hasn’t he? But he’s tough. He’ll be fine, too.”
With Annie in her arms, Mary glanced over at Travis. Softly she spoke his name and his body jerked. “Travis, are you all right?”
He shook his head, mutely.
Mary sighed. “Travis, won’t you talk to me?”
His shoulders hunched as he wrapped his arms around his waist. He couldn’t meet her eyes, he just couldn’t. She might have bled to death, right in her own back yard. And it would have been his fault. If he’d gone with his mother that first time, when she’d come to the house and demanded he leave with her, if he’d listened to his instincts that told him his mother was losing touch with reality—
“Travis?” Mary’s voice was as loving as ever. He shuddered with the need to be held and comforted by someone he’d always known was there for him. But he didn’t deserve to be comforted by her.
“I don’t know what to say to you.” Guilt-stricken, he could hardly get the words out.
Mary stepped away from Annie and moved to his side. One hand slipped around his neck, stroking gently, until with a harsh sob Travis turned to her and buried his face against her. She placed her other hand on his back.
She bent to him. “Travis, it was a shallow cut. Just a few stitches. And none of this was your fault, you hear me? Not one second of it. I told you once before not to take on the things in life you have no control over, and I’m telling you again.” She held him close as he cried hot tears. “Your mama has problems and she’s the only one who can deal with them. She’s got to be willing to accept help to get over them. Some things can’t be fixed, honey. Not by you or anyone else.”
“She hurt you. She hurt Hank. She could have killed—”
“But she didn’t. And now, she’ll get the help she needs, won’t she? Maybe it had to go this far, Travis. God works His miracles in ways we can’t begin to understand. All we can do is have faith.” Mary kissed his cheek and reached for Annie, pulling her close, until the three of them were connected as a family unit. Annie grabbed for Susan, drawing her into the huddle. For almost a minute, no one moved.
Finally, Susan kissed Travis’s other cheek, then her habitual need to add some kind of levity kicked in. “Listen to her, Travis. Or she’ll never let go of us. We might freeze in position like this.”
He uttered a rough chuckle. It wasn’t much, but it was better than tears. He let go of Mary, gave Susan’s waist a grateful squeeze, and stood up, retaining hold of Annie’s hand. A glance at Hank assured him their boy was still sleeping peacefully, and Susan plopped herself down in the chair next to his crib and laid her hand on his tummy.
She nodded at them both. “I’d like to sit with him for a while.”
Travis moved closer to Mary. “Annie and I need to see my mother. Do you know where she is?”
Mary watched him steadily for a few seconds, as if gauging his emotional stability. Without a word, she led them out of the room and down the short hallway. She pointed toward a closed door. A uniformed policeman stood in front of it. “In there. I don’t know if they’ll let you see her, Travis.”
It was too cold in the room. Thermal blankets covered Ruth, yet she shivered violently.
Voices prodded at her, asking her things h
er ears were too muffled to comprehend. After a while, she refused to raise her head and look in the direction of those voices. It was all jumbled-up sounds, anyway.
She’d done a Very Bad Thing. When you did a Very Bad Thing, you got punished. And punishment always hurt. She huddled under the blankets, cradling her wrist. It hurt, too. Maybe that was part of her punishment. But she somehow knew the hurt was nothing compared to what awaited her.
She wasn’t allowed to play with things like knives. She wasn’t allowed to be in a car, pretending to drive it. Doing all those forbidden things made her a Very Bad Person. Very Bad Persons went to Hell when they died. Very Bad Persons never had anyone to love them and take care of them.
Ruth pulled the blanket over her head, shutting out the voices that were now poking at her. Everything ached, from her head to her feet. Punishment, she knew. Her fault, and now she’d go to Hell and nobody would care.
They told her she’d hurt Mary. She didn’t know who Mary was, and she didn’t remember hurting her. They told her she’d hurt Hank. Ruth didn’t know any Hank, either. All she knew was that she’d been in a car when she wasn’t supposed to, and there had been a knife, and she was a Very Bad Person and had to be punished. Maybe they’d use the knife to cut the badness out of her.
She moaned, low in her throat. It didn’t sound human, even to herself.
“I’m Detective Sorenson.” The forty-ish woman standing just inside the room wore a dark gray pantsuit and sensible heels, her light brown hair wound into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Travis shook her hand while his eyes focused beyond her to the huddled form in the hospital bed. He knew his mother was there, under the mound of blankets. He could feel himself tighten all over as the anguished fury started to build.
Obviously Detective Sorenson sensed it too, for she placed her palm on his tensed forearm, a light touch that nevertheless cautioned him to tread with care. “Mr. Quincy, your mother isn’t talking. We’ve asked her several times what happened, but she hasn’t spoken a word. Now, there were witnesses to her actions, so it’s not like we have to get a confession out of her right away. The doctor on duty here has told us he’ll release her into our custody, probably in another hour or so.”
“What’s going to happen to her?” Annie asked.
“She’ll have to be booked. Assault with a dangerous weapon. It wasn’t a large knife but its serrated edge can do plenty of damage. Child endangerment. I could add attempted child abduction in the mix, but she is the boy’s grandmother, so I’m not sure about that one,” Detective Sorenson replied. “She’ll have to stand trial.”
“Is she,” Travis cleared his dry throat but his words were still raspy. “Is she mentally competent to stand trial?” He couldn’t take his eyes from the mound of blankets on the bed or ignore the keening, broken sounds emanating from under them. She sounded like an animal in terrible pain.
“Well, that’ll be for a psychiatric team to decide. If she’s not competent, then she’ll likely be institutionalized. Could be lengthy or short term. It’ll depend on how her mental capacity stabilizes. She’ll need to understand what she did before she can be brought to trial. At this point we can’t get a thing out of her, much less try to gauge how she might want to plead.”
“What if—what if I refuse to press charges? What if Mary Turner refuses to press charges?” As he spoke, Travis locked eyes with Annie, and saw in hers compassion as well as frustration. His mother assaulted her mother with a knife. His mother endangered the life of their child.
And his mother hunched beneath a small mountain of blankets in a hospital bed, rocking back and forth and moaning like something not quite human. How the hell could he condemn her to prison? How could he live with himself, if he did that? And what kind of beginning was this to the life he wanted so badly with Annie and Hank?
“What are you saying, Mr. Quincy?” Detective Sorenson asked quietly.
Travis turned eyes swimming in emotion toward her. “I want her to have the best help possible. I don’t think she’d survive prison, if it came to that. Please,” he entreated, “Detective, help me. Tell me what I need to do, to assure my mother is placed somewhere that will get her what she needs. Tell me how to take care of her.”
“Miss Turner? Do you agree? What about your mother? Would she agree to something like this?” Detective Sorenson wanted to know.
Annie nodded slowly, and her arms went around Travis. He leaned on her, a slip of a girl who looked as if a substantial wind could blow her away. But there was steel in that tender spine of hers. Nobody knew that better than he did. She was stronger than any of them.
She hesitated, only a second or two, as she prepared to speak in Mary’s behalf. “My mother’s a Christian woman, raised to show empathy and kindness toward those who would slap her down. She’d bring a crust of bread to a ravenous dog and hand-feed it.”
Travis could almost read her mind when she glanced up at him. Years filled with nothing but troubles and discord, caused by his mother. How could she get past all of that and refuse to press charges? It was one thing to speak for her mother and another to apply Mary’s teachings to a situation none of them could have seen coming.
But her arms tightened around him, and she must have found the empathy she needed as his grip remained warm and steady against her waist.
She took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. “Ruth Quincy needs help, Detective. She’s my son’s grandmother, and she’s been through so much in her life, things that have formed her and skewed her judgment. My mother won’t press charges, I’m certain. And neither will I.”
EPILOGUE
Hank peeked around the corner, tiptoed down the carpeted hallway and stopped in front of a wide door. He looked over his shoulder. “Hurry up, Mama.”
Annie grinned at his impatience. “No one’s going to leave without you, silly goose.” She caught up with him and tousled his black curls with her free hand. “Remember, you don’t stay very long. Okay?”
“Okay. Are you going to give her the flowers?” He pointed to the crystal vase she held.
“Yes, I’m going to give her the flowers, Mister Nosy.” He giggled at the nickname and knocked on the door, hopping up and down eagerly. Annie stifled a laugh. Hank had been bouncing on his feet since the first day he’d taken a step.
Edward, the day nurse, answered the door with his usual placid smile. “Good morning, young Quincy! She’s been waiting for you.” He extended the smile to Annie.
“How is she today?” she inquired, as she stepped inside.
“She’s doing very well, ma’am.”
Annie stood by the door as Hank ran into the room and threw his arms around the tall, thin woman whose hair was the same exact color as his. “Good morning, Nana. Did you sleep well?”
“I slept very well, my dear one.” She snuggled him close when he climbed carefully into her lap. He leaned on her shoulder.
She ran her hand over the robe she wore. “What do you think of my new robe?”
“It’s pretty. It’s like your eyes.” He patted the soft fabric.
“Your mother gave it to me.” The sincere pleasure in her voice made Annie smile even as she felt the sting of tears.
Today would be a good day. She briefly closed her eyes on the small, daily prayer of thanks, and watched her son work his charm on Ruth Quincy.
There was a tray on the Hepplewhite credenza, next to the comfortable armchair. It held all of Ruth’s morning favorites, from her signature rosehip tea, to the lemon cookies she loved to snack on in place of a heavier breakfast. Her correspondence from the day before sat neatly stacked and ready for her.
Cupping his chin, Ruth gave Hank a few nose-kisses, making him giggle. “Have you eaten yet? You are up so early.”
“I’m going with Da this morning. He wants me to see the op-opnation.” Hank struggled over the word.
“Operation. You’re going to go into the office with your father? How lovely for you.” She pressed her cheek against his ha
ir. “You will undoubtedly live up to your potential as the Quincy Heir, my sweet Dun—ah, Henry.” The stumble made Annie wince, but she knew Ruth was trying.
“Nana, why am I a hair?” Hank wanted to know. Annie bit her lips to hold in a chuckle. Next to her, Edward’s shoulders shook in silent laughter.
“Hair?”
“Yes. You said I was a Quincy hair. I got lots of hair on my head, right?” Hank looked up at her endearingly, and Annie could see Ruth almost melt with love.
“Ask your father, sweet boy. Or your mother.” As she spoke, Ruth looked right at Annie, and smiled.
“Okay!” Hank wriggled to get down and Ruth released him, after coaxing one last kiss from him. He smacked his mouth on both her cheeks, then skipped out of the room.
“Don’t run down the stairs, young man,” Annie called after him, shaking her head when she heard his feet clomping despite her warning. She waited until Ruth beckoned to her, before advancing any further into the room.
Until the last six or so months, days that started out with a smile on Ruth’s face were few and far between. At first, Annie often found herself searching for excuses to avoid visiting her mother-in-law. It was difficult to look at Ruth and not recall that awful day when Annie had held Hank’s hand in the emergency room, sobbing when she’d seen the bruises covering his body and the cuts standing out in stark relief against his pale skin. His poor arm—his leg, his ribs. Her little boy, hurt like that.
She and Travis had to work at reducing that all-consuming anger. By the time their wedding day arrived, Ruth was safely locked behind the elegant yet very secure gates of the Shane Ark Institute, receiving the help she needed. It took time, but with the ability to relax and feel secure once more, came the capability of learning how to be a family. They gave it their all, as they approached everything together.
Equally hard to deal with were the letters Ruth was allowed to send Travis, as part of her rehabilitation. They were filled with remorse, with pleas for forgiveness. At first Ruth asked that forgiveness only of Travis, somehow forgetting what she’d done to Annie and her family. Eventually she understood she needed Annie’s absolution as well. So in that respect the letters were therapeutic for Ruth. Over time, Annie and Travis found something therapeutic as well, in the reading of them.
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