Ashes of Another Life (7 page)

What a selfish thing to do, crying herself to sleep right here in the foyer. She should have gone to her room and spared Mrs. McKelvey the worry. But the terror she’d experienced on her unnerving walk home had hit her with such crippling force, she’d felt powerless to fight the panic that followed.

“I—uh—” Tara Jane gulped, fighting back tears. “I was upset about something and sat down on the floor to cry…” Her voice trailed off, but a long silence made it obvious she was supposed to continue. “I must have cried myself to sleep…”

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” asked the woman, hopeful, raising both of her eyebrows.

Tara Jane frowned at the wrinkles in her foster mother’s brow. She could swear they hadn’t been there before, when they’d first met.

That’s because she’s always worried about me.

She struggled to understand the emotions she felt for this “outsider.” Mrs. McKelvey was supposed to be impure, deceitful, damned for all eternity. Things would make sense if she were a bad person; Tara Jane’s
life
would make sense.

But there’s nothing damnable about her
.

The corner of Mrs. McKelvey’s mouth curled into a half-smile. “Come on, kiddo. Lay it on me. I can handle it, I promise.”

She shook her head. “N-no,” she stammered. “I’m okay now.”

Mrs. McKelvey patted her leg.

Just let her. Let her feel close to you. She needs it.

“We’re both lucky I came through the garage,” the woman said, shaking her head. “I could have hit you with the front door if I hadn’t.” She fixed the girl with a pleading stare. “Be careful,” she said, her voice sterner than before. She stood up and brushed the dirt from her slacks. “Come into the kitchen and eat something.” She noticed the look of displeasure on Tara Jane’s face and quickly added, “Please? Just a
little
something?”

Mrs. McKelvey offered a hand, but Tara Jane was rising to her feet already, unaccustomed to waiting for help. She followed her into the kitchen, sitting glumly on a stool as the woman whipped up a turkey and cheese sandwich with carrot sticks, ranch dressing and chips. She set the plate in front of Tara Jane, who looked down at it, suppressing a sigh. She didn’t feel the slightest bit hungry. Eating only fed the growing lump of anxiety in her stomach. She nibbled on the sandwich, reluctantly forcing herself to swallow.

“Tara Jane, I’ve been thinking. It sounds so formal when you call me Mrs. McKelvey. I’d like it if you call me Rita.”

She thought about this and was surprised to find she rather liked the idea. “Okay, Mrs.—Rita,” she said.

“Also, I was thinking… maybe I can call you TJ? You know, my own little nickname for you?”

The kitchen fell silent. Rita wiped the counter with a rag, feigning nonchalance. Tara Jane didn’t know how to respond. She’d never been called by a nickname, and the idea seemed oddly frightening.

“Or not… It was just a silly idea I had,” her foster mother said, leaning forward. Then, looking serious: “You know… you’d feel better if you took your medicine.” She opened her hand and dropped two pills on the table. One was white; the other was blue.

Tara Jane frowned and eyed the pills with a leery squint. She broke a sweat, unable to look away from the tiny capsules, as if any second they might jump up and force their way down her throat. “No,” she said in a near whisper. “I can’t…”

The woman looked defeated but tried to smile. “Okay, okay…” She sighed. “Hey, I never gave you a drink. Is lemonade okay?”

“Sure,” said Tara Jane.

“How’s your sandwich?” Rita turned and fished a glass from the cabinet and filled it with lemonade.

“Good. Thank you.”

The woman chuckled tensely, set the lemonade down in front of Tara Jane and said, “You hate it, don’t you?”

“N-no…” She looked down the sandwich. One corner had been nibbled away. “I just don’t feel well,” she added, and for the third night in a row, she politely asked, “May I save the rest for later?”

The woman solemnly nodded. “Of course, but promise me you will finish that juice.” She pointed a French-manicured fingertip at the cup. “It’s important to stay hydrated, even if you’re not feeling well enough to eat.” She watched Tara Jane for a few moments, as if waiting for her to drink it.

“I will, Mrs. McKelvey—err—Rita.” Tara Jane looked down at her glass and swirled its yellow contents around, waiting for her to leave.

Then Rita added, “I understand, you know. You may not think so, but I do.”

Tara Jane looked up, hiding the irritation from her face. Everyone kept saying they understood, but how could they? How could
anyone
understand what she was going through?

“What I mean to say is—I understand why you can’t eat, why you can’t sleep. You’ve been fixated on one thing—the anniversary of the fire. You have known it’s coming; you’ve been counting down the days.”

The knot in her stomach tightened.
I’ve been doing a lot of counting. Four, three, two, one…

“And now it’s here. And you
will
get through it. I’m here for you, and if there’s anything you need, even if you just need to blow off some steam and tell me I suck at coming up with nicknames, you let me know. This too shall pass, and who knows, maybe tomorrow you will wake up and put the past behind you and finally get a fresh start. You deserve one.”

They gazed at each other as Tara Jane wrapped her mind around the words. She didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded. She raised the glass to her lips and pretended to take a sip, and her foster mother seemed to perk up a little at that. Her eyes burned with concern for the starving girl. She flashed Tara Jane a defeated smile before turning to walk away.

Tara Jane lowered her head and pressed her face against the granite counter. She let out a soft groan. There was no way she could drink the lemonade. She felt horrible for misleading a good woman like Mrs. McKelvey, but she couldn’t bear to put anything in her stomach. She already felt like the few nibbles of sandwich she had eaten were trying to work their way back up her throat.

She lifted her head, stood, and crept over to the sink. The drain gurgled as she dumped out the juice. She rinsed the glass and took the stairs to her room.

Chapter Nine

Tara Jane lay down and buried her face in the pillow. For the first time in many years, she had her own bed, one she didn’t have to share with anyone else, but the feeling was bittersweet. She’d always wanted a room to herself—but not like this. She’d give anything to share her bed again, to feel her little brother, Jackson, tossing and turning in his sleep, or Susie hogging the blankets.

She felt like a lone wolf, miles away from its pack. She’d never felt much of a bond with her half-siblings, but there was a familiarity in numbers, a tight-knit security, like a shield from the outside world. She always pictured their home as a giant pin-cushion, jammed so full of needles it was more metal than fluff. Towards the end, there hadn’t been enough beds and sometimes even food, but there was a part of Tara Jane, buried deep inside, that desperately needed the closeness.

Mothers in Sweet Springs were not allowed to hug and kiss their children. Too much affection might spoil the child. Of course, there were those who did it anyway, in private, but it was highly discouraged. Tara Jane never understood it. She cuddled with Jackson and Susie most nights and thought, “I wish mother had cuddled with me.”

She missed them now. The loss of them had devastated her, changed her in ways she didn’t understand. Living outside the community for the first time, she could see the oppression that had sapped so much joy from her life. She’d been locked inside a mental prison, one designed to control her. Yet her family had been her greatest joy. Just as they were the chains holding her back, they were also the key to her happiness. It was the only life she’d ever known. The only life
any
of them knew.

She rolled her head on the pillow, fighting the bad memories as they surfaced, one by one.

The sweltering heat, the smell of burning wood.
The pain was always there, as if seared into her mind.
The hairs on her arms melting. Father’s scowl.
Her heart was heavy with the sorrow of that night, and her fragile mind was helpless to ignore it.

She saw the flames. She heard the desperate screams. She was there. Back home again.

Fire blazed down the hall, engulfing the walls and licking at the ceiling. The children’s screams were all around her, high-pitched pleas for help, half-muted by the roar of the fire. Smoke was everywhere, so thick it burned her eyes. Even with blurred vision, Tara Jane remembered thinking that the fire looked surreal—a blazing inferno meant for the depths of Hell, not here, not her home.

Her hand was blistered from trying all the door knobs. The family had been on lock-down following Father’s orders to fast and pray, and now—try as she might—she couldn’t open a single door. She bit her lip, ignoring the pain, and attempted to turn the knob hard enough to break the lock. She only managed a third degree burn on her palm. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

The children screamed. She narrowed her eyes and charged at the bedroom door. She slammed into it shoulder-first, and pain jolted through her side, but the door refused to give. Heat waves made the walls appear to ripple. Smoke curled around her. She coughed.

On the other side of the door, the children coughed, too. “
No windows
,” she said aloud as her anxiety reached new levels. The kids’ rooms were tiny additions built onto the sister wives’ rooms. None of them had windows. The door was their only escape, and it was locked from the outside, and Tara Jane didn’t have the key.

The basement held more bedrooms, and those kids would be trapped, too, and—

Tara Jane paused. Where
were
the sister wives anyway? She hadn’t tried opening their doors. At first, she’d assumed that any minute they would appear, frantic to save the children. But so far, they still hadn’t emerged.

A hand grabbed Tara Jane by the hair and jerked her backward. “What are you doing out of your room?” he growled. He gripped her from behind, face pressed close to hers, his deep voice vibrating her ear. He clenched a handful of her dark brown hair, pulling tighter. “Well?”

Confusion joined her terror. It infuriated Father when she escaped her room during one of his mandated lock-downs, but this was different. The children needed her help! Sure, he’d locked their doors and instructed his family to fast and pray… but that was before the fire. Why was Father acting as if Tara Jane’s disobedience was more important than the house being eaten by flames?

“Father! The fire! We’ve got to help the children!”

He threw her to the ground and stood above her. “Tara Jane! Get back to your room!”

She stared up at him in disbelief, face wet with tears. Her lips quivered, and she cried, “Father, why won’t you help them? Please! Let me help them!”

He shook his head. “It is the will of God.”

She gasped and choked on the smoke, spittle flying. She barely managed to ask, “What do you mean?”

“It is the will of God for us to begin our next life together, before we are torn apart in this one.” His eyes shined like onyx in the flickering firelight, a dozen flames reflected there, dancing.

Tara Jane shook her head. She crawled backward, still facing him, skin clammy with sweat. He’d strike her down if she stood, so inch by inch she scooted away from him down the hall.

Father had never been very violent with the children. Not until recently. His duties to the church, combined with his burgeoning family expenses and the pressure to protect his flock from the outside world—it was all too much for him to handle. Day by day, she had watched the smile slip from his face, replaced by a thin-lipped emptiness.

He was the same man he’d always been, biologically, but Father had changed. He’d grown colder. Every trace of warmth had been erased from his eyes, replaced with an unnerving darkness.

It all started when the feds came through and tried to break up the polygamist families. From there, it spiraled downhill. Mothers and fathers were fearful of losing their children and being separated from each other. Folks even started hiding their young…

His scowl deepened. He caught Tara Jane by the ankle and pulled her down the hall. Her pink prairie dress dragged through the soot. Her burned palms throbbed, dirt rubbing the wounds as she anxiously pawed the floor for something, anything, to grab.

I cannot let them down
, she thought.
Dear god, am I their only hope?
She heard the children, still pounding on their doors.
It must be red-hot on their fists.

Embers floated on black clouds of smoke all around, and she struggled to see ahead of them, kicking and struggling to escape Father’s hold on her ankle. The door of her bedroom came into view like a gaping black mouth, widening as they drew closer. She saw their tiny faces peer around the opening, and her heart sank. Jackson and Susie were still in there, waiting for her to return.