E
MMA
pressed her forehead against the passenger-side window of David’s Jeep Cherokee as he drove. It was a gloomy November afternoon, the bare tree branches etched against the smoky, gray sky. The air had a tang that was restorative after the medicinal stuffiness of the recycled hospital air. The two hundred stitches she had received had made it impossible to move or breathe without pain the first twenty-four hours. Now, two days later, it was merely very difficult. A physical therapist had visited her room and showed her how to use a cane to minimize the pressure on her left side. “You’ll get the hang of it,” the therapist had said cheerfully. But when David had pulled the car up to the hospital entrance, she had nearly started to cry, wondering how she was going to manage climbing into the high front seat of the SUV. Then her husband had gone around to the trunk, opened it, and pulled out a plastic milk crate, which he placed by the open passenger door. When Emma had exclaimed with surprise over his thoughtfulness, he admitted that he kept the milk crate in the trunk for his mother, who was also unable to manage the front seat without a boost. So, with the aid of the crate, the first hurdle had been easily accomplished. But Emma knew that physical restrictions would be the least of her worries. There would be other woes, more taxing by far.
She realized, as she put a hand protectively across her abdomen, that she was lucky to be alive, lucky to have escaped, lucky that her baby was still safe inside her. She knew she should be grateful. But she was plagued by melancholy. After her initial relief that she had survived the attack, her spirits had begun to sink. A maniac, who was still on the loose, had attacked her, and a good man had lost his life trying to save her. Her honeymoon weekend in the woods had turned into a gory nightmare. She had always known that there was random violence in the world—impossible to ignore if you watched TV or read the papers. But being the victim of such a senseless attack was something else altogether. She had never really lived in fear. She always considered herself to be strong, and she thought of her strength as a shield. But now she knew better.
“Almost home,” said David.
She turned to him and forced herself to smile. “I’ll be glad to get back to our house,” she said. “To our own bed.”
“Well, you’re not going to be able to make those stairs for a few days, maybe longer. You heard the doctor. I’ll make up the bed for you downstairs.” They had a guest room off the kitchen. David had his computer and his files in there and had claimed it for his office.
“But that’s where you work. I don’t want to disrupt your work space.”
“It’s only temporary,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
“All right,” she said doubtfully. “As long as you sleep downstairs with me.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said. “I’d be afraid of hurting you. I don’t want to take a chance of opening up those stitches.”
The thought of sleeping alone downstairs filled her with panic. “I don’t want to be by myself down there, David.”
“No one’s going to hurt you, honey. Whoever it was who attacked you is probably still in the Pine Barrens, looking for someone else to…another victim.”
“I’m not saying it’s rational. I’m just afraid, all right?”
“But there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’ll be all right—”
“It’s not all right!” Emma cried. “Aren’t I allowed to be afraid? Who wouldn’t be after something like this?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry. Of course you are,” he said. “Take it easy. You’re not supposed to get upset. Maybe I can put up a cot or sleep on the sofa.”
“I just can’t do it by myself,” she insisted.
“I get it, Em. I understand.”
Emma forced herself to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being a baby.”
He reached over and put a reassuring hand on hers. “Hey, you’ve got a perfect right to be scared. You just lived through a nightmare. But once we get home, everything will feel better to you. We’ll be there in no time. Just try to relax.”
Emma nodded. “You’re right. We’re almost there.”
“A few more blocks,” he said.
Emma looked out the window at the quiet streets of Clarenceville as they drove toward their house. She pictured it in her mind’s eye. Home. The house sat alone at the end of a wooded cul-de-sac, with no neighbors to block their views of the woods. It was only a rental—but she had fallen in love with the house the minute they walked into it. It was a two-story Arts and Crafts–style house, with wide mahogany woodwork that contrasted with the ecru, stuccolike walls, and the windows had angular patterns of pale stained glass. The William Morris printed fabrics and leather Mission-style antiques they’d bought suited the house perfectly. She’d even thought they might try to talk the owner into selling the house to them. But it seemed so unimportant right now.
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the headrest. Home. She would feel better once she got home.
“Oh…hell,” he said.
He had turned the corner onto their street. Emma sat up and opened her eyes. “What?” she asked. They had reached their secluded road and were headed for their house, which was just visible through the bare branches of the many trees that surrounded it. But instead of seeing their peaceful haven at the end of the street, they saw an assortment of haphazardly parked vehicles on either side of the road and a crowd milling at the edge of their front lawn There were news vans blocking the driveway, and reporters with microphones and notepads assembled, waiting for them.
“What are we going to do?” she said, feeling her anxiety start to mount.
“Oh, here we go,” said David bitterly.
Almost as if in answer to his words, one of the windbreaker-clad men holding a microphone in the driveway suddenly spotted their car and pointed. Every eye turned toward their car, and the reporters began to surge toward them.
David took a deep breath and continued driving slowly toward their home, not looking at the people who were swarming around the car, shouting questions at them.
Emma shrank from the passenger window, leaning against her husband and keeping her face turned away from the glass as he inched along, the reporters shouting and moving with him like a swarm of bees. The van was blocking his entry to the driveway.
“We can’t get in!” said Emma.
David started to lower the window to call to the driver of the van, but a microphone was instantly shoved into the gap. “Jesus Christ.” He raised the window as the reporter protested loudly about damage to his expensive equipment.
For a moment, David sat there fuming and then he pressed down on the horn. The blare of the horn was jarring, and Emma clapped her hands over her ears.
The driver of the van with a TV-station logo on the side looked startled to realize that the horn was meant for him. With an annoyed expression on his face, he finally mounted the driver’s side and turned on the lights. David backed up just enough to let him get out of the way, and then he started to pull into the driveway. “Oh great, look who’s here,” he said. He pulled up abruptly and parked at the foot of the short walkway to the house.
Emma frowned. “Who?”
David pointed to the car already parked in their driveway. “That’s Rory’s rental car from the airport.”
“Oh,” said Emma, trying to sound surprised. But she wasn’t really surprised. Her mother had rarely left her hospital room or the corridor outside of it.
David was swearing under his breath. “Of course, if we had a garage I could pull into it, but these old houses…”
Emma felt…chided. About the presence of her mother and about the old house. She didn’t expect him to welcome her mother’s visit, but the house was another matter. She loved the old house. She thought David did too.
“Stay right there,” he said. “I’ll come around and get you. They can’t come onto our property, so just ignore the yelling.”
Emma nodded.
David took a deep breath and opened the door of the car. Emma heard a babble of voices shouting questions at him. He slammed the door and pressed the remote to lock it. He walked around to her passenger door. She looked up at him through the window and he nodded grimly.
Emma hesitated and then began to open the door. He reached a hand in and Emma grabbed it. He opened the door a little bit more, and she slid out, feeling a searing pain in her leg and her side as she unfolded herself from the car where she had sat for an hour. She set her cane on the ground and leaned against it as David managed to get the door closed behind her.
“Emma, how are you feeling?” a woman’s voice cried, using her first name in a way that felt intrusive and overly familiar.
“Don’t look at them, and don’t answer them,” David said.
Is that more advice from Mr. Yunger? she wondered.
“Emma, do you know who the Pine Barrens killer is?” a bespectacled man holding a microphone cried out from the edge of the yard.
“What about you, Dave?” cried another man. “You have any comment about who tried to murder your wife?”
Emma glanced at David and saw that he was smoldering.
“Where were you when it happened, Dave?” another voice called out.
All of a sudden the front door to the house opened, and Rory, dressed in a green golf shirt and khakis, appeared on the doorstep. Rory wagged a finger at the assembled reporters. “All right. That’s enough,” he bellowed. “This woman is injured. You people gather up all your junk and get out of here.”
“What do you know about this, sir? What is your relationship to the victim?” a reporter demanded, undaunted.
David steered Emma up the walk and into the house past Rory, who stood there, nearly blocking the doorway. Kay, who was waiting just inside the front door, held out her arms and carefully hugged her daughter.
“Please, Kay, let her sit down,” said David.
Kay’s eyes flashed at her son-in-law, but she released her daughter. David helped Emma to the sofa, easing her down onto a cushion.
“Dave, you can’t let those people walk all over you,” Rory said, draping his arm over Kay’s shoulder.
David did not reply. “I’m going out to the car to get our bags,” he told Emma.
Emma leaned back against the sofa and nodded.
“You poor kid,” said Rory. “You look awful.”
“I’m just sore,” said Emma irritably. “It’ll pass.
Kay, in a taupe Calvin Klein pantsuit, her platinum hair perfectly coiffed, sat down on the sofa beside Emma and massaged her hand between her own.
“Oh, Mom, everything hurts,” said Emma. Stress and weariness had caught up with her. Tears rolled down her cheeks. They seemed to come and go without warning, like changes in the weather.
“Oh, my poor baby,” said Kay.
“What are you doing here?” Emma asked. This morning, as Emma was getting ready to leave the hospital, Kay had announced to David that she wanted to stay with them and take care of her daughter. David had quickly quashed that plan. “I thought you two were going back to Chicago.”
“We were,” said Kay. “We are. But I wanted to make sure you were safely home. And I thought you might need help with all those flowers you got….”
“We gave all the flowers to other patients,” said Emma. “David took care of it.”
“Well, and Stephanie told me, when she came to see you at the hospital, that she was going to be bringing over a casserole for you when you got home. I wanted to make sure someone was here when she came by. And it was a good thing too. She just left a few minutes before you arrived. She sends her love.”
“That was good of her,” said Emma.
“Oh, and I remembered that um…your wedding presents were all still at the inn. So, we brought them over here for you.” She pointed to the silver and gold wrapped and beribboned boxes, which were now piled in front of the cold hearth.
“Thanks, Mom. That was thoughtful,” said Emma.
David came back into the house, carrying the bags. Emma gave him a wan smile and nodded encouragement as he mounted the stairs. Then she put a hand on her stomach and closed her eyes briefly.
“Those reporters act like a bunch of mad dogs,” said Kay.
Emma sighed. “It’s what they get paid for.”
“Honey, can I get you a cup of tea?” Kay asked.
“I’m fine,” Emma said.
Rory came over and perched on the edge of the armchair across from Emma. “You’re not fine,” said Rory in a low voice. “From what the police and the doctors told your mother, it’s a miracle you’re still alive.”
“Actually, I’m alive because Claude Mathis came to my rescue. And got killed for his kindness.” Emma shook her head. “I’ve been thinking about this. I want to do something for his family. His son. He has a teenage son. I want you to arrange for some financial support for the boy. Just move it from one of my investment accounts.”
“There will be plenty of time for that when you’re feeling better,” said Rory in a placating tone.
“That family is suffering. I want you to do it right away,” Emma insisted.
“You might want to give some further thought to the actual arrangements. Do you want a trust account or a small investment portfolio or—”
“Isn’t this your area of expertise? Please, just take care of it,” Emma cried.
“All right,” said Rory. “All right. Of course. Consider it done. I’ll get the papers together.”
“Thank you,” said Emma.
Kay rubbed her tanned, well-manicured hands together. “Emma, Rory and I have been talking this over and…we think it might be best if you came home with us. Come back to Chicago with us, where we can take care of you.”
“This is my home. I’m fine right here, Mom,” Emma said.
Kay and Rory exchanged a glance.
“What?” Emma asked indignantly. “What’s the look for?”
“Nothing. I would just feel that you’re safer if you were with us,” Kay said.
“David will take care of me,” said Emma.
“We don’t know David that well,” said Kay.
“He’s my husband, Mother,” Emma said in a sharp tone.
“Don’t take that tone with your mother, now. She’s only thinking of your well-being. Let me tell you something,” Rory said, pointing his index finger at Emma, “from a man’s perspective. A lot of men don’t view pregnancy the same way that women do. They start thinking about the good old days when they were free and irresponsible. Maybe your husband had second thoughts about this marriage.”