Don interrupted her thoughts. “You mean until I lost my job. After I’d lost Hope.” He dangled his statement out there like a giant piñata, waiting for her to take a whack at it—at him. It was the invitation to an old argument, one that had healed over with time, but just barely. It was like a scab, itching to be picked, underneath still oozing and raw.
The air got very still. Arthur kept his eyes steadfastly on the road, straining to block out their conversation. Mona sighed, wondering if his self-hate would turn on her, now that she was the one who had lost Hope.
“It wasn’t your fault, Don.”
“And this time isn’t yours, either,” he answered, surprising her. She turned in the roomy seat, so she could see if he was serious.
“You mean that?”
He nodded. “Of course. But I need to ask you, what were you thinking, letting Hope see this boy, this boy you seem to know nothing about?”
It was a fair question, she realized. She peeked into the front seat, but Arthur was still studiously ignoring them.
“He seemed good for her, Don,” she shrugged. At the time, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal. But now it appeared as if everything might hinge on Michael and his real intentions toward her daughter. “He seemed smart and straightforward, not like he had anything to hide. I don’t think they did anything but moon over each other, if that makes you feel any better. It was kind of sweet.”
She peered at Don. He was trying hard, she could tell, to understand. Trying hard to be balanced in his judgment.
“How did you not know she was upset by all that human trafficking business? That she wasn’t sleeping? What if she really got swept into it, like the FBI believe? While you were away …” He cut himself off, but the sharp edge in his tone made clear his implication—that she had once again neglected Hope for her career.
Was he right? She stared out the window, choosing to evade his questions.
“Mona? I’m not blaming you, I’m just trying to understand what you were thinking.”
“I thought she needed to spread her wings,” she whispered, pressing her flushed cheeks to the cool glass of the window, thinking of the timid thing that had come into her home, barely any possessions to her name, and how she seemed to blossom under Michael’s attention. She changed every day as she experienced the freedom she’d been denied in the circumscribed life permitted by her father, who feared that the Mark on Hope’s neck, indeed, her very abduction, meant she was a target for something bigger than any of them understood.
She teared up, Don’s unspoken accusation smarting, her own self-doubt eating at her heart.
Arthur cleared his throat. “She did what she thought best, Don. Just like you did all those years. Maybe it would be best for you two to just drop this. It won’t come to any good.”
“No, he needs to hear this,” Mona interjected, her voice thick as she turned away from the window to confront Don. “And I don’t mind saying it in front of you, either,” she added, drawing Arthur into their conversation. “After all this time, you know as much about our messed-up family as anybody does. Don,” she continued, leaning across the seat divider, her gestures hard and emphatic, “all these years that you kept her under lock and key, thinking she was at risk: You were stifling her. I couldn’t do that to her. And even now, I wouldn’t change that. I couldn’t. She needs to be a girl, Don, just a young girl. With everything that means—parties and boyfriends and the freedom to make her own mistakes, so she can grow up and be proud of who she is, to know her place in the world, to know she belongs. She needs that.”
“But what if she’s not just a girl? What if she’s meant for something else?”
Mona threw up her hands, a stifled sound of frustration catching in the back of her throat. She collapsed back into the cavernous leather seat, crossing her arms. She was done with this conversation.
They rode the rest of the way in stony silence. Arthur navigated them through the winding roads of her neighborhood. As he commented on the absurdity of the callers on the talk radio station they were listening to, the best either Mona or Don could muster was a mumbled yes or no, despite Arthur’s efforts to lighten the mood.
Mona emerged from his SUV, steeling herself once again for an onslaught of reality, reminding herself of the routine, trying to block out the conversation in the car. You enter through the garage, she began, thinking it through as she walked up the short drive, slowly acting out each step. You press the keypad, and the tiny motor roars to life, lifting the barricade for you to enter. You turn the knob on the kitchen door, which you leave unlocked, because really, after all, Dunwoody is such a safe neighborhood. You put your car keys on the hook and press the garage door button, so the door closes behind you. It doesn’t really matter if you forget the last step, because nobody else comes this far down the cul-de-sac, but closing up the garage is the right thing to do. Just in case.
She would just ignore the klatch of reporters that sat like vultures outside her home, shouting her name. She could pretend they weren’t there if she focused on her routine.
It was the same routine she’d followed every time she returned home for more than fifteen years. Normally it comforted her, this sameness, this predictability, the oasis of familiarity that she brought to her otherwise chaotic, traveling life. But this time it just underscored how meager and fragile her defenses against the world had been. How things had changed, and how powerless she had been to stop it.
How little she would have left if she didn’t find Hope.
She looked down and saw she was holding Don’s hat in her hands. She’d brought it in with her, after picking it up off of the passenger seat, not even thinking about it.
She was worn out by their argument … and disappointed. She’d thought they had made some progress.
Mona looked more closely at Don’s knit cap. She poked a finger through the tiny hole that was emerging near the back. Worn, but still serviceable, especially since it was so loved.
There was a faint knock at the front door.
As if in a dream, Mona moved to the window and peeked out. Don. She had forgotten she’d left him standing in the driveway. The sight of him didn’t provoke her anymore; she had grown used to him again, after all those hours in the FBI offices. She had to admit that she’d even grown to look forward to seeing him, in spite of the circumstances. But right now she was hurt by his insinuations and too tired to think about her complicated feelings for him. Shoving them aside, she opened the door.
“I think I forgot my hat in Arthur’s car,” he said sheepishly.
“It’s right here,” she said, swinging the door wide and proffering up the hat.
He looked down at Mona’s hands. Her finger was still laced through the loose yarn.
She blushed. “Sorry,” she mumbled as she disentangled her finger.
He stood there, awkwardly, at the threshold. “May I come in?”
“What? Oh, of course,” she said automatically, turning an even deeper shade of red. What is wrong with you, Mona? You said you wanted him out of here, she thought as she stepped back, giving Don full entry into the house.
He seemed less comfortable in the house than the last time he had been here. Before, he’d filled the place with his presence. The questioning by the FBI, their failure to find Hope, had deflated him. He was weary, and the gray pallor of his skin showed it. He stood in the formal entry to the house, waiting. She was conscious of his gaze, aware that she, too, was tired.
Tired? She felt old. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and waited for him to say something.
He shuffled his feet and then pointed halfheartedly toward her. “Um. I’ll take that.” She looked down to where he pointed and saw she was still holding onto his hat; she had wadded it up into a little ball that she was working nervously. A jittery self-derisive sound escaped her. This wasn’t like her, not at all. She pressed the ball of yarn into his hand, their fingers touching. She let hers linger before pulling away.
&
nbsp; “I’m going back to Alabama now,” he said, watching for her reaction. She had prepared herself for this, had rehearsed their parting in her mind during the quiet time in Arthur’s car. They would never go back to the way things had been, and they couldn’t stay this way, either. She knew that.
But that didn’t make it any easier.
“Do you need anything before you go?” She asked, hoping he didn’t hear the quiver in her voice.
“Mona,” he began, running a hand through his thinning hair, “that girl said she’d read Hope’s Mark. Read it. I know you. I know you wouldn’t just let her go. What did you tell her when you said goodbye?”
Should she tell him? It seemed harmless. But then again, the more he knew, the more that could slip. The last thing she needed was for Hale to find out she was holding out on him, interfering with a witness.
“I’m her father,” Don said, his voice rough. “I deserve to know as much as you.”
Mona nodded, knowing he was right, and secretly relieved to have something to discuss that would get him back on her side. “Come in.”
He strode to the formal living room and sat down on the edge of the love seat. He’d never looked at home in this room, and today he looked even more uncomfortable. Expectant and nervous, he was fiddling with the hat in his hands with the fervor of a fan watching the ninth inning of a no-hitter, twisting and kneading it while he hung on Mona’s every word.
“It’s really nothing, not yet,” Mona said, sitting next to him and leaning in, eagerly. “I mean, I couldn’t question her in there without Hale hearing. So I just told her I had to ask her something privately and to call me. I don’t know if she’ll do it. I mean, she nodded, but that could mean anything.”
Don gripped her hands. “Do you know what this means, Mona? This could be the key to everything,” he said, his eyes shining. “I’m just surprised that Hale didn’t pick up on it.”
Mona nodded, Don’s enthusiasm contagious. “He will, eventually. If he goes back to her original case files. But for now, I think he has a lot of other things on his hands. I know he won’t understand us keeping it from him, but … that Mark. It’s part of such an old hurt. I just feel like we needed to hear it ourselves, first.”
She looked deeply into Don’s eyes. They were complicit in this. She had to trust him now.
“I’ll tell you as soon as I hear from Tabby—if I hear from Tabby. But you have to promise me you won’t do anything crazy.”
Don surprised her by laughing. His eyes were dancing, and he seemed almost joyful. She remembered him looking like that on the day she told him she was expecting Hope. For an instant, his face was as youthful and spirited as it had been then, before any of this happened. Before they fell apart.
“Revelation usually demands action. But yes, Mona, for you, I promise I won’t do anything crazy.” He squeezed her hands as he made the promise. Suddenly, she felt shy.
“I suppose you should go now,” she whispered, withdrawing her hands from his grip.
“I suppose,” he answered, his burst of joy disappearing just as suddenly as it had come, the lines etched by years of disappointment resurfacing on his face. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to see Hope’s room before I go,” he responded, looking at her cautiously.
She didn’t speak. Instead, she took him by the hand and pulled him after her, up the stairs. Hope’s bedroom door was closed. They stood outside of it, as if waiting for her to emerge.
“I haven’t been in since that morning.” Mona breathed the words as if she were afraid that by speaking she would shatter the silent bubble of mystery that surrounded her daughter, making it feel even more real. The room was a cocoon. She could imagine her daughter sleeping safely inside, holding onto that memory until something brought Hope back into her arms. She was loathe to disturb the illusion—had gone so far as to excuse herself the day the FBI searched for clues—but Don had asked, and she didn’t know how to say no.
Don held her hand and turned the knob. The door swung open. The afternoon light was filtering through the windows and lighting up the bits of dust that floated in the air, creating an aura of sanctity that passed when a cloud filled the sky.
Mona shook her head, trying to clear the sentiment away. It was just an empty room, she told herself, and walked through the door, still holding Don’s hand.
They looked around at the clutter. Nothing stood out as unusual to Mona’s keen eye.
Don dropped her hand and moved to the black and white houndstooth hat that was slung over the low post at the foot of the bed.
“Roll Tide,” he whispered, picking up the hat and twirling it on a finger. He stopped and fiddled with the rim, his eyes getting misty. Then, he noticed a maroon and gold baseball cap that had been hidden underneath and smiled ruefully. “She would do anything to get under my skin, wouldn’t she? Even embrace the enemy.” He slumped onto the rumpled bed. “More like anything to prove she was not my daughter. I guess I didn’t make it any easier on her, though. Maybe you’re right, after all. Maybe I should have let her … let her be.”
Mona pressed her eyes closed, willing herself not to think of the acrimonious battles they’d waged in courtrooms, the snippets of daily humiliation and isolation he’d forced on Hope—the little bits that Mona knew about, the ones she’d wrested out of Hope. She forced a smile, shaking the thoughts away. She’d take this tiny sliver of admission and focus on the good instead.
“I think this is normal teenage behavior, Don. Even if we hadn’t made life difficult for her, she’d still have her rebellions. We’re lucky they stopped at her cheering for the Seminoles and the Crimson Tide.” She sat down next to him, absentmindedly smoothing over the unmade covers. “She’d kill me for showing you this, but I don’t think it can do any harm. Not now.”
She burrowed under the stack of pillows and pulled out a ratty stuffed animal.
“See?” She said, holding the plush yellow jacket out to him. “Still a Tech girl at heart.”
He chuckled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he took the animal in hand. “Do you remember when we got her this? How big her eyes got when we took her into the stadium?”
Mona laughed, envisioning the little girl, drowning in her Georgia Tech sweatshirt, trailing a yellow and black plastic pom-pom after her. “She had to use her hands and knees to take the steps, but she wouldn’t let us carry her, would she?”
“Not our girl,” Don agreed. “She never did like to do things the easy way.” He looked at the stuffed animal and tossed it lightly in his big hand. “Maybe she didn’t hate me after all.”
“Doesn’t.” Mona said, fiercely, taking the toy from him. “She’s still here.” She stumbled on the word, gesturing emphatically. “Somewhere. She’s not … gone.” She burst into tears, hunching over, as if she could hold in her sorrow as she sat there, clutching the animal in her lap.
Don shifted on the bed. He lifted one hand, then another, unsure of what to do, before Mona finally turned and fell into his arms. He wrapped his arms about her and held her until the sobs that wracked her body subsided into tiny hiccups, murmuring into her hair as he stroked her face and comforted her.
They sat together until the sun was low, leaving poppy-colored streaks against the sky, the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
“I keep thinking about last time,” Mona whispered against his shoulder. “It’s been twice as long, Don. What if we don’t find her?”
Don held her tighter and smiled. “She’ll come back.”
“They always say if you don’t find a missing child within the first 48 hours …”
“She’s still alive,” Don said, kissing her forehead. “She’ll come back.”
Mona pushed away from him, irritated at his confidence. “How do you know?”
Don looked at her, amused. “You don’t want to know how I know, Mona. It just makes you think I’m crazy.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he interrupted her, laying a finger gently across her lips. “Just this
once, let it go.”
Mona was too tired to argue. She looked up at him, her limpid eyes beginning to well over again. “I want to believe you. I do.”
“Then believe. Just for tonight, forget about what happened so many years ago. Forget about all the things I did wrong, all the things that embarrassed you and that you resented. Forget about your need for rational explanations and proof and just believe.”
He sounded logical. He sounded confident and strong. He sounded like the man she’d fallen in love with all those years ago.
He traced the outline of her lips with a light finger. “Believe in me, Mona … like you used to.”
He bent his head, as if to kiss her. And Mona, wanting to believe, and to forget, did not stop him.
Pale light filtering through the curtains gently coaxed Mona awake. She rolled over and groaned. Her body felt like it had been hit by a Mack truck, achy emptiness occupying places that before had been full of tension. She hadn’t slept like this since she came home from her trip to find the house empty and thought Don had kidnapped Hope.
Her mind reeled as reality came rushing back in. She turned over to check the other side of the bed. Rumpled. Empty. The impression of another head on the pillow.
She pushed herself up from the bed. What had she done?
She flew to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Her skin was ruddy, rubbed raw by Don’s stubble. She turned on the tap as far as it could go and dashed cold water against her face, rubbing her skin as if she could make the evidence go away.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She girded herself in her old flannel robe, pulling the belt tight, and shoved her feet into slippers. Already, she was rehearsing what she would say to Don when she found him downstairs: It was a mistake. It should never have happened. You need to go, Don. Go back to Alabama.
Dark Rising Page 15
