Rose for Rose: Book Two in the Angels' Mirror Series (16 page)

Paloma ceased petting her, took a sip of her tea, and then another before answering.

She kept the cup between her hands this time.

“After all that we’ve been through with that man, I just don’t…” Her words trailed away.

She didn’t even have to say it.

Mark Jeffries had been born in England but raised in Portland. He was a man with a background in both psychology and sociology.

When Edward had met him upon transporting through the mirror into the 21
st
century, Mark had been teasing at best, aloof, unbelieving, and judgmental at worst. And then, when he and Paloma thought that Mark had finally begun to root for them once they embraced their attraction to each other, he had set to pull them apart, even leaving Eugenie in order to ask Paloma for her hand in marriage. But when she accepted Edward’s proposal instead, he seemed to be on board, begging the beautiful and sweet Eugenie Mason to take him back, claiming to have been off his meds for a couple weeks, and that he didn’t
really
love Paloma after all, but her.

And she’d believed him. They all had.

Now, Edward wondered.

What was Mark’s true motive, and did he really care about anybody other than himself?

Sometimes it seemed he cared greatly, and yet other times, it seemed he was oblivious to the feelings and emotions of those around him. His empathy skills had been lacking for as long as Edward had known him.

Silently reaching over Paloma for some of her tea, Edward continued to think. The cup was empty, so he went to pour more and came back to the couch in contemplation.

As he sat, Petunia Grace hopped up next to him once more, then walked from his lap to Paloma’s and settled, purring. A soft rrrowl met his ears, then another, but it was as though through fog while he continued reminiscing.

They had allowed the man to be part of their wedding party; taken him back as a friend. Mark and Eugenie had finally wed in the last year or so, and now…. And now, when Paloma had borne Edward three children, and Eugenie was expecting, Mark was acting strangely toward everyone again.

What’s more, he was treating Rose like she has nowhere to belong but with her family, even though God had obviously brought her to the here and now for some reason.

But what was that reason?

Why was she in their lives now? What was it she was supposed to teach them, or them, her?

“There’s more to Mark’s story than you know, and I don’t know the whole of it, though Jason may. But what I know of it… still, this doesn’t make sense,” she said, somewhat loudly.

Tears shimmered in her eyes again, threatening to fall once more.

Petunia stretched, jumped down, and walked away.

“Eugenie said that last night, he mumbled something about this being “the third and last time” the mirror was going to ruin his life. So… if he’s had something to do with it one more time than the rest of us, then… what?”

“What? What do you mean…? A third time, so… what does this mean? What could have…?”

“I’m not sure, Edward,” she said, shifting Petunia over, reaching for some tea, taking a few sips.

“All I know is that he had a sister. A sister who disappeared when he was a child. Maybe… this may be far-fetched, but maybe he sees Rose and sees what may have happened to his sister? Maybe he… maybe this dredged things up for him from that nightmare time in his life? I just… I don’t know. All I know is we need to be in prayer for all of them, for wisdom, and for God’s will to be done throughout.”

After a few moments, she continued.

“But maybe it has something to do with… with Arthur? Or with that poor murdered girl? I mean, I have no idea what… wait! Isn’t Arthur in prison for murder? I think I recall someone telling me that. You don’t think… could the girl Mark is seemingly obsessed with be… one of Arthur’s… but…”

She stood then, and Edward followed suit.

When he placed his arm around her, she returned the gesture, cup in hand, and then embraced him. He held on tight, not wishing the moment to end.

She’s right
, he thought.
We really do need to be praying for them because God alone knows what will happen, and why. And He alone knows what our role in all of this is meant to be…

“Now, I’m not saying his sister went through the…”

“I know. I know. You’re just…”

“And I’m not saying this has to do with… Arthur or that girl,” she said, pausing. “But if it does… what does it mean for… for all of us?

“Exactly,” he replied. “What we need to do is find out what this third instance
is
, and
how
it relates to any of the rest of this. It’d be part of the history of the mirror, as well as learning more about why Mark is… well, the way he is, maybe.”

All Paloma did was silently nod in reply.

Finally letting her go, he took the mug from her, went and washed it in the sink and set it aside for morning. Once it dried, they’d put it in line with the rest of their everyday tea mugs on the top of the refrigerator. The only evidence it’d been recently used was the twinkle of water on the handle from where the overhead light glinted off of it.

With another sigh, he made sure the doors were all locked, the windows open a couple of inches each for air to filter in, and then took her hand so they could stride together toward bed for the night.

When he glanced at the clock next to the bed, he saw it was nearly eleven thirty. They got ready for bed, then he took out their Bible, knelt at the side of the blue, white, and purple tartan-spread bed, and together, after praying, turned to read where they’d left off the night before.

“Galatians five, verses nineteen through twenty-six. Shall we stay with
The Message
tonight? Or would you rather I go for a different version?”

In assent, she nodded. “
The Message
is fine, Edward, My Love. Go ahead…”

And so, he began:

“It is obvious what kind of life develops out of trying to get your own way all the time: repetitive, loveless, cheap sex; a stinking accumulation of mental and emotional garbage; frenzied and joyless grabs for happiness; trinket gods; magic-show religion; paranoid loneliness; cutthroat competition; all-consuming-yet-never-satisfied wants; a brutal temper; an impotence to love or be loved; divided homes and divided lives; small-minded and lopsided pursuits; the vicious habit of depersonalizing everyone into a rival; uncontrolled and uncontrollable addictions; ugly parodies of community. I could go on.”

He stopped, turned the Bible toward Paloma, and she prepared to read the next part.

Lord, I really do need to read this again and get a better grasp of it all
, he thought. He smiled silently at the irony of not going on, as Paul did, as Paloma began reading.

“This isn’t the first time I have warned you, you know. If you use your freedom this way, you will not inherit God’s kingdom. But what happens when we live God’s way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people. We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely.”

Softly, she paused, turning to him. “Want to read the rest, or shall I?”

“It’s all right. You feel free to go on.”

The words overwhelmed him too much to really speak. A calm came over him at the same time his heart began to speed up; a strange sense that there was something here he really needed to hear tonight.

The picture of the orchard in the text came to mind as Paloma continued.

“Legalism is helpless in bringing this about; it only gets in the way. Among those who belong to Christ, everything connected with getting our own way and mindlessly responding to what everyone else calls necessities is killed off for good—crucified. Since this is the kind of life we have chosen, the life of the Spirit, let us make sure that we do not just hold it as an idea in our heads or a sentiment in our hearts, but work out its implications in every detail of our lives. That means we will not compare ourselves with each other as if one of us were better and another worse. We have far more interesting things to do with our lives. Each of us is an original.”

Edward let out a low whistle.

“Wow. I never read it in this translation before, and for this text, at least, the words really bring to life what Paul is trying to teach us. What the Father is trying to tell us. I, um… this seems to relate so much to what is happening I can hardly get a grip on it.”

Paloma stayed quiet a moment before replying.

When she finally spoke, she said, “I think for me, at least, it’s a reminder not to judge Mark. We don’t know his story; not in full, but if we did, we would still not be the ones to judge. Or to think better of ourselves than him. I…” she paused. “I wanted nothing to do with him the other day, when he got so upset and Rose ran away. I… I couldn’t even talk to him until this morning, and even at that, I really didn’t want to.”

“And I, I’m guilty, too,” Edward said. “I’ve wanted to trade stories with Rose; find out about her experience with the mirror. Yet we just read, all-consuming wants that aren’t ever satisfied. I’ve been obsessing over it, and… forgive me, Paloma.” He reached for her, and the two began to weep openly together.

Her hand grasped his, and she began to pray, “Father, forgive us, for we know not what we do until it’s sometimes too late….”

Twenty

Gloucester, Massachusetts… August 15, 1930

“Father? Is that really you?”

Steven ran to open the door, the rain pouring down. Warren, Michael, and Peter were right behind him, and now, they were hugging in the sop, the soggy wetness of their father’s deep chest and long arms.

“Lads, sorry it took so long to get back, I… the
SS Rosa Angela
took quite a hit and now it’ll be a few weeks before we can fish again.” Father said this as they entered the house. “But… where is my Rose, anyway,” he asked, looking about him.

Steven’s heart thudded in his chest. Would the boys tell what happened, like they had with Miss Roisin, or keep to the story? “Father, I’m sorry to tell you… I….”

Warren butted in, “We found her clothes on the edge of the water yesterday.” He and Peter were both crying now, and tears came to his own eyes. They had kept his secret, for now. And he was thankful. Michael just stared ahead.

He hadn’t said more than five sentences since Rose had disappeared.

In time, perhaps, they would have to go with the whole truth, but could Father take it?

“What do you mean, in the water?” There was a hitch to Father’s voice; a hitch Steven had only heard when Rose told him their mother and little sister had died, mere hours before he came in from the sea.

The burly man, with his wet mousy brown hair dripping; the even darker beard and mustache, the worn coat soaked through, simply stood there. He looked undone.

And it’s my own fault
, Steven thought to himself.
I did this. If we hadn’t been wrestling, then Rose… and Miss Roisin… would both be here still, and all could go back to normal
.

Father collapsed into his chair, not seeming to care it would get soaked thoroughly from the waterlogged state of his attire; his hair.

“What happened,” he finally asked in a soft voice, like before.

A voice too quiet, just as the booming question had been too loud.

Had Father been drinking before he’d come home, again? Steven didn’t smell anything on him, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t cleaned himself up afterward.

Peter spoke, solemnly, as though he were ancient already from what had occurred. “Wosie and Miss Woisin both; they’we… thew’re gone.” The boy looked frightened, as though Father would hit him, and he had every right to step back behind Steven as he said it, for Father had, indeed, occasionally walloped one or the other of them, Rose included.

A fist came out, but instead of one of the boys, Father hit the table on his left, denting it, leaving yet another reminder for them of Father’s occasional, extreme anger.

A sigh of relief came to Steven without his even realizing it, and Father looked at him then. “What aren’t you telling me, Boy? When did Rose disappear, and what of Miss Roisin? Who has been looking after you? The Gafrils? The Schwartzes? We don’t really know them well, you know! They’re… well, they’re not really like us… are they?”

There was a frown deep inside Father’s eyes; a sadness nothing could match save when Mother and Sarah Jene had died.

“I… Father, I’m not sure where to start,” he said, shying away just a little more. He felt trapped, but what could he do? “Miss Roisin stopped in almost every day until…”

How could he tell Father?

Father, who had already lost so much?

Steven felt so sorry for him, but pity would do no good. Maybe truth was best, after all… even if it was a thousand percent harder. At least then Father wouldn’t be looking in the water, trying to find the bodies of his daughter and the woman who had recently caught his eye.

After losing Mother and Sarah Jene, finding out he was lied to would be way too much; better to just fess up what happened and get it over with, even though he knew Father wouldn’t believe a word of it.

With a quiet sigh, he began.

With the truth.

And when he finished, Father’s eyes were glazed over, and Warren and Peter each had one of his hands, but Michael stood off to the side, as usual. Father looked at each in the eye, and then… after patting the younger boys on their backs and consoling them… he lashed out.

Steven hadn’t even seen it coming.

Father’s fist was nothing compared to what it sometimes was, but he felt it hit his gut all the same. Again. Just like when he and Rosie had to tell him about Mother and, before that, about Nanama and Gram-Papa, since he was out fishing both times.

When Sarah Jene died, Father had been there, but only because his sisters-in-law insisted he stay home.

“How dare you lie to me, Boy? How dare you lie?”

Father cursed him then, told him he would never amount to anything because he was nothing but a liar. Warren, Michael, and Peter stepped back further, as though to run, and suddenly, he dropped his hands, as if he hadn’t realized the younger boys were still in the room until then.

“You might not think it’s twue… but it
is
twue, Fathaw, and getting mad isn’t going to change that,” Warren shouted before he and Peter grabbed Michael by the hand and ran outside. It happened so fast that the boys were gone before either he or their Father could react.

Steven was stunned.

Had Warren ever raised his voice before in his life? And here he was, defending truth despite knowing that Father would take his anger out on… someone.

Maybe all of them.

Steven imagined them in the rain, in the dark, running. They ran when he wished he could; he envied them, and yet, he knew he wouldn’t have the same option.

Not now.

Not tonight.

Were it not for the pain in his stomach, and in his heart, Steven would do the same, but he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t.

This was his own fault.

He knew that to his core.

And Father had every right to be upset, even if it wasn’t right for him to come in stone drunk and then hit his son because he didn’t like what he heard.

True, the truth was hard to believe, but…. Since when had any of them ever lied to Father?

Occasionally to Mother, but never to Father. Didn’t he realize that?

Finally, after what seemed an eternity of gazing eye to eye with Father, the man he’d been named for and loved in spite of his weaknesses for anger and booze, he heard the back door open.

Warren had returned, but where were Michael and Peter?

As if in answer to his thoughts, Warren spoke, looking not at him, but at Father.

“We’re going to stay at Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz’s and they asked Steven to come, too. We’re going to stay until you’re gone. We didn’t lie to you in the end. We couldn’t. We love you too much, and… Rose is gone, Father. She’s gone. And we have no idea where. We can’t change it. We can’t change that Miss Roisin is gone, either, but it’s the truth. And if we have to be the grownups about this, then I guess we do… so… so we’re going. For now, we’re going. And Steven needs to come, too.”

Finally, Father’s gaze moved to his second oldest son; shook his head, as if in a daze.

Maybe he had been.

“Fine,” the man said quietly… tersely. “Get your things, Michael’s, and Peter’s, and go. Steven is staying right here with me. We have a few things to discuss. I’ll send him over tomorrow…. If he wants to go.”

“Father, what was that for? You let them go somewhere they feel safe, and yet you keep me here? Don’t you think they’ve been separated from enough of their family already,” Steven asked Father, who was silently drinking a beer in his chair.

Over an hour had passed since his brothers left, and Steven was tired; too tired to argue with his father, but he was also angry.

How could Father do this?

The older man was staring off into space, apparently lost in thought, because he didn’t reply for several moments.

Finally, he spoke up, his voice raising with each word. “You listen here, son. You listen here. I’m your Father, and you’re never, ever… never, ever to lie to me again. Especially when someone is missing.”

He paused long enough to drain the last part of his glass and slam it down onto his well-muscled knee before he continued, his voice evening out into a roar. The glass shattered.

“So, here’s the deal, Steven,” Father said, glaring down into his face. “”You tell me what really happened… you tell me what really happened to our Rose Angela, and to Miss Roisin, and I’ll go easier on you. There’s no way that stupid mirror of your…. There’s no way it could… there’s no way!”

Tears started rolling down Father’s face, and all of a sudden, Steven felt the vicelike grip of his father’s arms clamp around him in a hug. When Steven began to cry along with him, Father pushed him away again, wiped his own eyes, and glared at him.

“There’s no way that mirror of your… of your Gram-Papa’s… it can’t really hold magic. You cannot believe that it does. Why, you would be thrown out of the church for even suggesting it, so get it out of your head right now. Nobody’s going to believe that people would just disappear through…. Nobody would believe…”

Father swept up the glass from the table into his hands and headed for the kitchen. Steven followed him with his eyes, his heartbeat in his throat.

Please, God, please… help him to understand, and Lord… please, help me to understand, too. I don’t want to lose Father, too, after all… after all of this,
he prayed silently as he heard his Father heading back into the living room.

“Now, for your consequences,” Father was saying as Steven began to stand.

“Go find me a belt from the closet. You aren’t getting away with all your lies that easily…”