Dark Hope (2 page)

“You deserve the whole thing,” he’d stated emphatically when, after tallying up the budget for the affair, she’d suggested once again that they should simply elope to Savannah. “The big dress, the flowers—all of it. And I want it in a church,” he’d said. That was the only part of the deal, she knew, that wasn’t open to negotiation. “I want the holy bonds.”

Mona pulled out her portrait and held it up close, peering at it with a critical eye. She’d chosen the dress wisely, she thought, always knowing what flattered her petite frame. The long column of white was elegant, the Empire waist just enough to hide the tiny bump that was beginning to show. If you didn’t know it already, you’d have never been able to tell that she was already five months along in that photo. The studio had expertly wiped out the red of her eyes, eyes that had become bloodshot from the horrible morning sickness that never went away. She smiled, grimly remembering
the intersection where, every morning on her way to work, she’d had to pull over and vomit, the fumes from the commute too much for her roiling stomach to bear.

She set the picture down. A mother at twenty-two. She wouldn’t have believed it herself if it hadn’t happened to her. It was definitely not a part of her plan. But Hope—well, Hope was worth it.

She turned back to the photo of her three-year-old daughter. There was a big gap after that: no pictures for a long, long time. Then just a trail of obligatory school pictures, her daughter in school uniform, her eyes wary, her spirit seemingly snuffed out. In each one, she seemed to shrink behind a curtain of hair, willing the camera away, hoping she could hide from it.

Ten years.

Had she done the right thing? she wondered. After Hope’s abduction, she had tried to make it work with Don. She hadn’t ever blamed him for what had happened. She knew how often she, herself, at the playground would sneak a glance at her mobile while her daughter played on the slide or in the dirt, trying to catch up on what was going on in the office. She knew how quickly it could have happened, and it could have happened on her watch just as easily as it had happened on his.

No, she had never blamed Don. But he had been unable to forgive himself. Even though Hope had been returned to them whole—undamaged except for that damned mark on her neck—he couldn’t let go of the feeling that he was somehow responsible, and that there was more to the story. He couldn’t accept that their daughter had been taken randomly by a sick, sick man, a man who had died a fiery death, a man who was no longer a threat.

Don’s vow to never let it happen again had been the poison that had destroyed their marriage. His vigilance became obsession until it was the defining thing in his life, crowding out the happiness
they’d once had together, crowding out even his love for her, Mona, until there was nothing left but paranoia.

She’d had no choice. She still believed that, even after all these years. She’d had to leave him, even though it had torn her apart—because, after all, she had still loved him. Or at least she had loved the memory of him: the man who had sold his beloved pickup truck to buy her a diamond ring, which she’d found inside her fortune cookie after wolfing down some kung pao chicken; the man who had gone out in the middle of the night without complaining to buy her Dutch apple pie when that had been all she craved, always coming back with an extra pint of ice cream; the man who’d cried when the doctors placed his infant daughter in his arms and whose voice, like magic, was the only thing in the world that could stop Hope’s angry, newborn wailing.

Mona had made her decision, thinking that with a separation she’d be able to shield her daughter from Don’s increasingly crazy rantings. On her own, she could filter Hope’s exposure so that she saw only the best of her father. So while Mona couldn’t bring herself to divorce him, she’d filed for a formal separation and custody, thinking that would be enough.

Instead, she’d lost her daughter when the judge deemed that her work schedule would prevent her from being a good mother. The injustice of it burned even now. The loss of custody had been bad enough. The court-ordered visitations—her tenuous link to her daughter’s love—had been continuously strained by Don’s insistence on keeping up security, approving every place they went, screening each site carefully for risks. Her gifts had been rejected, as if somehow the wrong blouse or dress would paint a target on their daughter, exposing her to harm. So as Hope grew older, Mona’s attempts to connect with her became strained and forced, their entire relationship carefully controlled by Don’s vigilance.

For ten years, Mona had mourned the loss of her husband and her daughter. She’d mourned the loss even as she soldiered on, advancing to partner in her firm, making sure that if nothing else, her broken family’s material needs were met.

And now this. Hope had asked the court for a change of custody, and this time, the court had listened. This time, Hope was coming home with her.

This sudden change of events was a gift, one she was determined not to waste. She’d done everything she could to make her house ready. Hope’s room had been updated to what she supposed would appeal to a young teenager. Her closet was stocked with clothing—not too much, because she still didn’t know exactly what her daughter’s preferences would be, but enough to see her through the start of school. She’d bought a new treadmill so her daughter could keep up with her beloved running—her only pastime, as far as Mona could tell.

No, she would not waste this opportunity. She stuffed down the pang of sympathy she felt for Don. She’d lost her daughter before. She was not going to let it happen again.

Her cell phone began ringing, the no-nonsense, anonymous tune that she’d never bothered to reset interrupting her reverie. It was Clayton Ross, the managing partner of her consulting firm and closest thing she had to a boss. And a friend.

“Checking up on me, Clay?”

“You know I’d never do that, Mona. But I did want you to reconsider my offer to drive with you to Alabama. That’s a long way to drive alone.”

“You’ll let me fly halfway round the world to negotiate nasty mergers, but I can’t handle a leisurely weekend jaunt up I-75?” she teased.

She could almost hear him smiling over the line.

“You know that’s not it. But it’s a big day. Thought you might like some backup if he doesn’t play ball.”

Clayton was referring to her husband, of course, and whether or not he would respect the order to absent himself when Mona came to pick up Hope and take her home for good.

“He wouldn’t do that to me. Not now. He’s been oddly cooperative since the mediator made her decision.”

“If you say so. I wouldn’t put anything past him.” Clayton had had an up-close view of her troubles with Don over the years, and it had soured him from having any optimism. “Drive safely, then, and call me if you change your mind.”

I won’t, she thought to herself as she ended the call. I’ve waited too long for this moment to share it with anybody else.

two

I
didn’t have much to take with me from Alabama: my school, Holy Innocents, had required uniforms, so I had little clothing of my own. Dad had always deemed the things my mother kept sending me “too showy,” and he’d promptly packed them up to send to Goodwill. Mom had said to leave my treadmill; she’d get me a new one. So I loaded up the backseat of her Audi convertible with my books and climbed in, ready to put my past behind me.

As Mom backed out of the long rutted driveway, I took one last look at the house in which I’d lived for almost ten years. Dad wasn’t there to wave goodbye. When I’d told the judge I was afraid he’d make a scene, he’d ordered him to vacate the premises for the hour before and after my mother was supposed to collect me. He was probably down at the church, praying for a miraculous intervention to keep me from moving to Atlanta. Resentment flooded through me, and I crossed my arms, refusing to acknowledge the fluttering in my stomach.

“Ready to go?” Mom asked, looking expectantly into the backseat at me. I nodded and she accelerated. In an instant, a cloud of dust obscured my view of the house.

We rode in silence. My request for a change of custody had come as a surprise to my mom. She’d never challenged the original arrangements over the years, had never pumped me for information or probed to find his failings as a father. It was like she wanted him to be a good dad, was even rooting for him. When I’d insisted on talking in private with the court-appointed mediator, she hadn’t questioned it. She’d never tried to get me to explain why I wanted to move back to live with her.

Now, as we weaved in and out of the fast lane, she kept her end of whatever unspoken agreement she had with my dad and left me to my own thoughts. But I didn’t want to think. Instead, I let the steady hum of the asphalt under the tires lull me into a half-sleep.

“Here we are,” Mom said briskly, jolting me out of my trance as she made a sharp turn. The two hours had gone swiftly, and I was surprised to see that we were in a neat subdivision, almost home.

My mom still lived in the same big house in the suburbs we’d had before my parents separated. It made no sense. She had to drive miles to get to the airport. She lived alone. The house was a massive colonial looming ahead of us at the end of a cul-de-sac: great for a family with young kids, a bit much if you were a single not-quite-divorcée.

The perfection of it was jarring after living as we did in Alabama. Even though Dad and I technically lived in a decent neighborhood (thanks to the generous check Mom sent every month), our house
was pretty sad. Dad had blocked out most of the windows with aluminum foil, nailing their sashes shut, and had installed double deadbolts on every door. The yard was a dead zone with bare patches of dirt and stubby clumps of straw, all that was left of the bushes some previous owner had planted. From the mint green and plum wallpaper that looked like it came from an old Holiday Inn to the saggy garage door, the entire place looked like someone had abandoned it circa 1992. The covenants had expired on our neighborhood, so the neighbors just shook their heads and whispered among themselves about what a shame it was.

That wasn’t the only thing they whispered about us. My dad had embraced an extreme religious-slash-survivalist lifestyle that was way outside the bounds of any normal church. He’d raised me like a hunted thing, always wary, pushing well-meaning neighbors away to keep me isolated from the “threat”—whatever threat it was that he imagined. We lived on the edges of social acceptability, my daily trips to school tolerated only because of the legalities and my mom’s refusal to let him homeschool me. Between his erratic behavior and the story of my past, we were outcasts, tolerated at best in the small town in which he raised me. But now, all that was going to be over at last.

I felt a little twinge looking up at my new home as we pulled up the driveway. With its pretty white shutters, sparkling panes, and wide expanse of green grass, it should have been cheery, but the yawning windows looked just as sad to me. As she pulled into the spotless garage, I wondered again why Mom had lived here by herself all these years.

“You remember; your room is at the top of the stairway. I can help you carry your books up, if you’d like.” The corners of her mouth contorted, as if she was either forcing a smile or trying to suppress one. I couldn’t tell which.

I nodded, sitting in my seat, my hands folded in my lap, while she got out of the car and opened the door for me. I looked up at her face, uncertain. I hadn’t thought about the fact that I didn’t really know my mom. I hadn’t really lived with her in more than ten years.

She blew out a long breath and reached in to squeeze my hands.

“Welcome home, Hope.”