Dark Lady

by Richard North Patterson

  “Oh, I’ve known for years now.” Caroline’s tone was quiet still. “Did you listen to her, Betty?”

  “Yes.” Betty stood straighter. “Because I love her. I’ve loved her ‘all these years you were away.” Caroline felt her fists clench. “What did you overhear, damn you? That he wanted her to go to California?”

  “Yes.” Betty’s voice rose in anger. “And that he was in trouble over drugs—”

  “And,” Caroline cut in, “that there’d been a girl named Megan. You lied about that too, didn’t you?” Betty walked to the corner of the porch. Caroline’s voice became soft again. “How long after that did you leave the house?” In the darkness, Betty’s profile was still. Caroline moved closer. “You left the house, damn it. Just tell me when.”

  Slowly, Betty turned to Caroline. With something close to calm, she asked, “How do you know that?”

  “Because you stopped at the gas station,” Caroline paused. “That wasn’t very smart, Betty.” Betty seemed to slump. She looked thin and tired; Caroline had a stark, pitiless image of Betty as an old woman. “I wasn’t planning this,” Betty said at last. “Any of it.” The admission, so simply stated, drained the anger within Caroline. Suddenly, all she felt was a horror so deep that she wished to erase it. “My God, Betty.” She heard the tremor in her own voice. “My God.” Betty’s look became pleading. Tonelessly, she asked, “So you understand now?”

  “Understand?” Caroline stared at her. “How can anyone understand that?” Betty came toward her, then stopped abruptly, shock filling her eyes. “That’s what you think of me, Caroline? That’s who you think I am?” Her voice was thick. “A woman so deranged she’d kill Brett’s boyfriend, then let her be blamed for it?” Caroline could only stare at her. Betty grasped her collar. “You’re the one who’s sick, Caroline—poisoned with guilt and hatred and years of being alone—” With an awful deliberation, Caroline slapped her sister across her face. There was a sharp crack; Betty’s muffled shriek. Caroline felt a numbness in her wrist, tears in her eyes. Betty stared at her, hand pressed to her cheek. In a flat voice, Caroline said, “What were you doing there?” Betty turned from her. After a time, she murmured, “I was coming back from Father’s fishing camp.” ,,Why?” Betty touched her eyes. “Because he was so upset. He wanted to be alone.” Caroline felt a tightness in her chest. She raised a hand, as if to steady herself. “You told him.”

  “Yes.” Betty’s expression mingled shame with pride. “Larry was gone, Caroline. I needed to talk to someone.” Caroline felt herself shiver. It was a moment before she could speak. “Do you have any idea,” she asked, “what you may have done? Again?” Betty folded her arms, as if against the cold. “Father and I couldn’t tell anyone. If the police had known that Brett and James had been fighting over Megan …” She looked away. Caroline felt a terrible rash of comprehension. “You think Brett killed him. That you protected her by lying…” Betty looked at her steadily now. But she would not, could not, answer. “What fools we are.” Pausing, Caroline shook her head. “Brett didn’t kill anyone.” Betty swallowed. “Who, then?” Caroline felt a wave of nausea. “My God, Betty. Have you forgotten who it was that taught us to fillet a fish?” In the silence, Betty’s eyes shut. “Where is he?” Caroline demanded. “At his fishing camp.” When Betty opened her eyes, her voice was shaking. “I’ll go with you. It’s better if we talk to him together.” Caroline made herself stand straight again. “No,” she answered softly. “This is mine to do. After all, I am Bret’s mother.”

  In the wind and rain, the roiling sea at her back, Caroline had slowly crossed the beach. She was numb; in her mind, David fought the storm, not knowing the thing that—in the guilt of her betrayal, Caroline could not bring herself to tell him. Mechanically, she went to the boathouse for her suitcase. The boathouse was stark, empty. She looked vainly about for any sign of him; all that was left were two paperbacks he had forgotten. Unlatching her suitcase, she tucked them in a corner. She would save them for him or, if he wrote to her, send them back.

  And then the anguish came over her again—a half hour ago they had faced each other in his room, and now he was gone, and all she had of him was an untold secret. Turning, she stepped outside and shut the door softly behind her. Her father’s house was dark. She climbed the stairs from the beach, knowing only that she could not tell him that David was gone. And then, in her misery, Caroline saw how she must buy her lover time. She opened the door and walked silently through the house. Her father was in the night-shadowed porch. As she stood in the doorway, she saw him pacing distractedly, now and then gazing out to sea. “Hello, Father.” He started. “Caroline,” he said, and then hesitancy entered his voice, and Caroline knew for certain that her father had betrayed them. “Where have you been?” he asked. “Boston. You knew that.”

  “But you’re drenched.” Caroline did not answer. She fought the impulse to scream at him, to tell him what he had done. But for David’s sake, she could not. Drawing herself up, she said in a calm voice, “I came back to tell you something.” In the dim light, she saw the wariness in his deep-set eyes and knew what he expected—that she had come to say she was in love with David and was going away with him. Cautiously, he asked, “What is it?”

  “I’m pregnant, Father.”

  “Pregnant?” His voice was hollow, appalled. “Are you quite sure?”

  “Yes. That’s why I went to Boston. To see my doctor.” Her voice sounded civil, Caroline thought, if unapologetic. But her father was quite still; what he knew, and how he felt, kept him from coming close to her. “You can’t have this baby, Caroline.” His tone was soft now. “Surely that must be clear.”

  Caroline raised her hand. “What I’m going to do, Father, is go to bed. In the morning, after I’ve thought more, I’ll go see Scott. We’re the ones who must decide.” Her father seemed to blanch. With a satisfaction born of hatred, Caroline saw the terrible emotion cross his face—the knowledge that he had turned in the father of his daughter’s child, that David would go to prison. And then, most contemptible of all, Caroline read the hope that she would never know who had betrayed them. “Caroline.” His voice was rough. “We must talk about this. Now.”

  “i’m sorry, Father. Not now. I seem to be more tired these days.”

  “But you’re my daughter …”

  “I know,” Caroline said softly. And then, for David’s sake, she crossed the room and kissed her father on the cheek. “I know.”

  She could not sleep that night. The windows of her bedroom rattled with waves of rain and howling wind; her mind fought back terrified imaginings, willed David through the storm. The life that he had left inside her seemed barely real. In the morning, drawn and nauseous, Caroline forced herself to dress. Her stomach was still flat, she saw. But her body had the first swelling of water retained, and she found that she no longer liked coffee. That, and the sickness, were the small intimations of this living thing that only her sister had craved. Larry and Betty were in the kitchen. From their expressions-the edgy wariness they had lately assumed for meetings between Channing and the new and unpredictable Caroline—she surmised that Channing had told them nothing. Yes, she thought, that would be like him. An abortion, then Harvard, and life goes on as it was. With no one but the two of them, and David, ever knowing the truth.

  Larry gave her a quizzical smile, Betty a more cautious one. “How are you?” Larry asked. But it was Betty whom Caroline looked at. “Pregnant,” she said. Betty’s mouth fell open. Almost conversationally, Caroline said, “If you’re not feeling nauseous, Betty, it’s probably a false alarm. Take it from me.” Betty half stood. Ignoring this, Caroline walked past them and out into the rear yard. The morning was sparkling, with that crisp purity of wind and sky that follows a fierce storm. Perfect for sailing, Caroline thought. Her father was staring at the empty mooring. Quiet, Caroline came up behind him. “Oh, yes,” she said. “David’s gone.” He turned to her: it was a moment before the shock suffused his face. “Last night
,” she said in a tight voice, “was the hardest thing I’d ever done. But that’s almost over for me now. Because this is the last time you and I are ever speaking.”

  “Caroline.” He reached out for her, anguish in his face. “Please …”

  “You made my decision for me. I shouldn’t be with David, so you decided to have him sent to jail, letting me think it was just bad luck.” She paused, breathing hard now. “Well, you’ve lost me now. And you know the part I hate most? You don’t feel sorry for David. You feel sorry for you …. “

  “Caroline.” Channing drew his hands back, fought for dignity. “You don’t know what it is to love a child.”

  “No. But I know the difference between love and ownership.” Caroline fought to control her temper; suddenly what she felt was deeper, and surer, than anger. “But if you love me, Father, please don’t hope for forgiveness. Hope, for my sake, that David Stern is still alive.” She turned and left him there.

  That fall, she stayed alone on the Vineyard. Her father had given up. She felt him, alone in New Hampshire, waiting out her anger and disaffection. But what he would have known were they still speaking was that Caroline no longer cared. A life was growing inside her. Part of this, Caroline admitted to herself with ruthless honesty, was deeply irrational—that the life was part of David, who might already be lost. Were he here, to end this baby might have been possible; perhaps to bear his child was a deep, even twisted, act of anger and revenge. But she could not live with the thought of having killed him and then his child as well. For that was the crux of it. Caroline had no rules for what other women must do; her role for society was that women must decide. But she was too unsparing with herself to deny that the decision was to take, or not take, a life. For David, for the child, and, most of all, for herself, Caroline could not do this. And so, by default, the child remained inside her. Until the choice was only whether to keep it or give it away. Even as she hoped against hope to hear from David, Caroline began, at last, to imagine a future on her own. She knew what she would do without the child—move as far from New Hampshire as was possible, put herself through law school, stand on her own. Become the kind of lawyer that Caroline Masters—and no one else—would come to believe she should be. But as hard as it was to imagine life with this baby, it was as hard to imagine the strangers who would become its parents; in that bleak winter on the Vineyard, Caroline had far too much time to consider what a parent might do to a child. One morning, with a crisp frost on the ground, Larry appeared at the door. He gave her a small, embarrassed smile. “I’ve come to visit you.” To her surprise, Caroline realized she was glad to see him. She felt grateful that her bitterness had not yet tarnished Larry. “Come on in,” she said. “These days, I don’t have too much company. None, in fact.” He shot a wry glance at her stomach. “One,” he amended. “But I guess he—or she—isn’t talking yet.” Caroline smiled. “No. But she’s walking a little.” Impulsively, Larry stepped forward and put his arms around her. “I’m glad to see you, Caro. No one quite knows what to do.” She pressed her face against his shoulder. “I don’t, either,” she murmured. “Not about this baby.” For a while, she just let him hold her. It was strange, she thought, that this made her feel like crying. “Caro,” he said softly. I’m so sorry.”

  “I know. I know …. ” At last, she led him to the porch, still holding his hand. They sat together on the couch. The seascape before them was stark and gray, and smudges of frost remained on the grass. Caroline hugged herself. “Have you ever heard from him?” Larry asked. Caroline shook her head. “Either he’s dead or he’s unwilling to forgive me. I hope it’s the last.” Larry fell silent. “Are you thinking of keeping it’?” he said after a time. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t, really. But if I don’t, it’s like throwing a life into the lottery. How do I know who this baby gets?” She turned to him. “It’s not enough that someone wants a child. Look how much my father wanted me.” Larry looked away, as if gathering himself. “I don’t know how else to say this, Caroline, but to say it. I want you to think about something.” All at once, Caroline knew why he had come. Coldly, she said, “What is it?” Larry could not face her now. “We’ll never have a baby, Caro. The problem’s not just me, it turns out. It’s Betty tOO …. ” Caroline stood abruptly. “Never. It’s better for our relationship, Larry, if I just pretend to be speechless. But I can’t believe that you—the only one I still care about—would come to me for this.” Her voice rose. “Really, what fucking vultures all of you are. But you …” Larry looked at her now. Quietly, he said, “Who else could ask you, Caroline.”? And who else would you want for this baby’s father?” Caroline drew a breath, staring at him. “You may hate Betty,” Larry went on, “until the day you die. Although I’ve got to tell you, for her sake, that she’s heartsick and ashamed. But I’m not asking this for her sake. I’m asking for the baby’s sake, and mine …. “

  “This baby thing was Betty’s idea, remember?”

  “Was,” Larry retorted. “Until I knew we couldn’t have one. And knew you were.” He walked over to Caroline, clasped both her shoulders, and looked into her face. “Whatever you may think of her, Betty will love this child. And I’ll be there to make sure everything goes right. I’ll be the father, Caroline. Would you rather trust a stranger?” Caroline turned from him, walked back to the couch. “This is just too much,” she said. Silent, Larry watched her. Caroline sat with her elbows on her knees, face cradled in both hands, staring at the brick floor. “It’s not just Betty,” she said at last. “It’s my father.”

  “Your father’s not adopting anyone.” Caroline looked fiercely up at him. “My father adopts lives. If you’re not careful, yours will be one of them.” Her voice turned slow and cold. “I will not have this child living the life my father sets for her. If it just were you, Larry, this might be possible. But I look at all of you, and I don’t believe it is possible.” Larry sat beside her. Finally, he said, “What would you want from me?” My God, Caroline thought; for a moment, she had imagined this baby with Larry—with her own home and a father who could separate her life from his. “What I would want,” she said in a low voice, “is for you to live away from

  him—different town, different state. So that he never, ever runs anyone’s life again.” Larry gazed out at the water. “I can do that,” he said at last. “One way or another.” Slowly, Caroline turned to him. To her own surprise, she said, “Then I’ll think about it. Now, please, leave me alone.”

  Two days after the baby was born, Larry came to the hospital. He was alone; Caroline had not had to ask this. With bemusement and wonder, he looked at the baby she held. “God,” he said. “All that hair I didn’t know babies came with hair”

  “Neither did I.” Looking down, Caroline studied the little girl’s face. It was red, still swollen from birth, but she had the most remarkable eyes. Squinting, the baby stretched an arm, as if reaching out for her It was strange, Caroline thought, how easy it was for a mother to impose meaning on a baby’s simplest reflexes. “Would you like to hold her?” she asked Larry. Awkwardly, Larry reached out. Cradling the baby in both hands, Caroline slid her into his arms. He sat back in the visitor’s chair, smiling into the baby’s unseeing eyes, until the image of that moment imprinted itself in Caroline’s mind, to remain forever—sun streaming through the hospital window, lighting the baby’s face and hair as Larry rested his cheek against hers. “She smells good,” Larry murmured. “New.”

  “I know.” Larry sat there, holding the baby, until Caroline saw that he could not bring himself to do what must be done. Softly, she said, “I’m all packed, Larry. There’s nothing more for me to do here.” Slowly, he looked up at her. “Okay, then.” Caroline stood. “I’ll carry her.” “You’re all right to do that?”

  “Uh-huh.” For the last time, Caroline took the baby in her arms. She kissed her head and then, because she could not help herself, smelled her skin again. The first few steps were strange; Caroline still felt wounded, and her stomach s
eemed a shapeless flap of skin. In time, she supposed, she would be herself again. As they walked through the corridor, Larry took her arm. The nurse at the reception desk smiled at them. “Going home?” Caroline nodded. “Going home.” The nurse brought out a form to sign. Passing the baby to Larry, Caroline could not look at either one of them. Wordless, she signed the papers. The nurse patted her hand. “Enjoy her,” she said. “Oh,” Caroline said, I’m sure I will.” Turning, she saw that, now, Larry could not look at her. Outside the Vineyard Hospital, it was a clear, cool April day. Caroline stopped for a moment, blinking in the light. “My car’s over here,” Larry said. They walked there. Betty was waiting across the sound, in Woods Hole, Caroline knew; Larry would drive the baby to the ferry, and within two hours, the three of them would be together. But Larry did not know how to leave. “I don’t want to hear from you,” Caroline said. “I don’t want to know about any of you. Just, please, take good care of her.” Baby in his arms, Larry looked at her steadily. “We will,” he said. “I will.” There was a catch in Caroline’s throat. Softly, she asked, “What will you name her?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He tried to smile. “To me, she looks like Baby Allen.” Caroline gazed at the baby in his arms. At that instant, the little girl opened her eyes. “To me,” Caroline said, “she looks like my mother.”

  Slowly, Larry nodded. “Can I give you a ride?” he asked.

  “No. Thanks. I’ll call a cab.” With the baby in his arms, Larry came to Caroline and kissed her on the forehead. She could feel the child’s small body graze her arm. “Go, now,” she said. Without answering, Larry put the baby in the car and got inside. As they left, Caroline turned away.

  Out of kindness and anger and self-preservation, Caroline did what she thought a birth mother should do. She moved to California, entered law school. She never saw her daughter again. She had made her own life, and Brett had paid for it.