Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (39 page)

By the time Sandy got packed and loaded the luggage into her car, it was one o'clock on Friday morning. It still ticked her off how long the cops had delayed her. Not to mention her injury, which had forced her to move far more slowly than she would have liked. Now, after reaching the Beltway, she took a sip of coffee from the thermos, and a bite of a chocolate chip cookie she'd grabbed along with a few candy bars, an apple, and a container of
Slenderella
.

Shortly before leaving, she'd received an email from
Slenderella
management terminating her contract. For “unspecified reasons.” This had added to her eagerness to get out of town. Right behind wanting to escape the vandalism and the cops, who'd given her the creeps. They only left after she said, “I just don't want anything more to do with whoever did this,” her mind conjuring up Isabel's image.

More or less, those had been Bill's final words too. “We don't want anything more to do with you.” Which, in the end, made it easier for her to leave. Still, she prayed that Jessie would remember how much she'd loved her, how much she'd done for her, and come around.

Of course, she had gotten Bill to give her a monthly allowance until they were legally split. “Just give me what's mine and I won't bother you.” He didn't say yes or no, but agreed to put money into an account for her, and added that he planned to close their joint account. For the moment, she still trusted him to treat her fairly. In case he didn't, she'd hire a divorce attorney.

But the thing that motivated her “to get out of Dodge” most was Isabel. After a few miles on the Beltway, she was relieved to be putting distance between herself and that wretched woman. It was clear now that no one knew what Isabel Winthrop was truly capable of. She'd tried to burn their house down! An incident that over the past few days had expanded in Sandy's mind. She imagined herself battling the growing blaze. She imagined Isabel wanting to burn her at the stake. Who knew what else she might do, not that she was afraid of her, but, after all, she
was
a lawyer.

Sandy pointed her car south on I-95, toward palm trees and warmth. It would be a long night, so she drank more coffee and listened to the radio, trying hard not to think about who else she was leaving behind besides Isabel Winthrop.

This morning, for the first time, as she was preparing to head back to the hospital, Isabel itched to do some work. Perhaps she'd have one of the paralegals bring her a few folders. At least then she could focus on something other than waiting for Phoebe to emerge from the coma's fog. To return to her former life. Though she knew that life would never be the same.

Oh, Phoebe, my darling girl. We love you so much. Maybe you'll surprise me and be in your own room today
. The doctor had called a short while earlier to say that Phoebe had continued to make progress throughout the night and might be ready to leave the ICU very soon.
Please, God, let it be so
.

She smelled French toast and bacon as she wandered down the stairs and entered the kitchen. Ron didn't look up, but continued cooking. “What do you know? Sleeping beauty's up. What's your pleasure? Coffee? Juice? Eggs?” he said.

Isabel could tell he was working hard to sound cheerful and she felt uncertain about how to respond. “I could use some coffee,” she said, aiming for a neutral tone. She knew he was elated about Phoebe and trying to get back into her good graces, but she couldn't simply ignore all his transgressions. She needed time to consider what he'd done and how to respond. She recalled the promise she'd made eight years ago, but for now she would do nothing that might upset Phoebe. So for the moment she shelved all thoughts of divorce. Whatever she decided, it would have to wait. I'll think about it tomorrow, she thought. And with that her mouth curved into a faint smile.

“Where's Jackson?” she asked.

“Probably on X-Box, winning a battle against the Evil Empire.”

At the mention of the word “evil” she couldn't help Sandy's image appearing before her eyes. With a quick shake of her head, she chased it away.

“I'll get him,” she said. “Maybe then we can eat together?”

“Your wish is my command.”

Dawn was breaking as Sandy drove south along the coast of North Carolina. She'd always wanted to see the Outer Banks. Despite the chilly temperatures, about an hour ago she'd put her car's top down and tied a see-through scarf around her hair, kind of like one she'd seen Marilyn wear. The icy wind braced her and kept her awake. She'd been driving a full five hours. A while ago she'd run out of coffee.

Now, on hearing the screeching gulls, she decided to pull over. Anyway, she could use a break. Just ahead, across the street from the ocean, a ramshackle little diner appeared. Once she'd parked and gotten out of her car she took a moment to stretch and yawn and breathe in the moist salt air. She was careful to put only slight pressure on her left foot as she crossed the small lot.

Inside the quaint empty diner, she plopped down on a stool and ordered a coffee from the woman behind the counter, “Black with two sugars and lots of cream,” she said. Her eyes wandered over to the pastry shelf to see if they had any good pies or freshly baked muffins.

“Is that a sweet potato pie?” she asked, and when the answer was yes, she requested a slice, her eyes widening with delight, and her stomach suddenly ravenous. She could hardly remember the last time she'd eaten any real food, not that pie constituted a meal. She wolfed it down and considered having a second piece. Or maybe some eggs.

The smells and sounds of cooking filtered out of the kitchen.

Like a child, she took a couple of turns on the bar stool, then stopped to gaze outside. For a time, she watched the surf. A black pick-up swung into the parking lot. A muscular guy, wearing little more than jeans and a white t-shirt, got out and came inside. She turned a bright innocent smile on him. “Aren't ya cold, like that?” she said. “Brrr,” and pretended to shiver.

“Nah,” he laughed, then strode over to the counter and straddled a barstool near her. He cocked his head to the side and studied her. “Haven't I seen you somewhere?” he asked.

She wondered if he'd seen any of the awful stuff on the Internet. “Maybe,” she said with a coy smile. “I used to model for ads now and then.” Of course this wasn't true.

He seemed impressed. “What brings you to these parts?”

With that opening, Sandy launched into a story that unspooled like a skein of silk, the threads changing color with each new lie that emerged from her mouth. She loved his boyish laughter, his rugged good looks, his straightforward eagerness, and couldn't help the way her libido suddenly sprang to life. He seemed fair game. Maybe I'll stop here a while, she thought. Start out fresh. Be somebody new and different. Why not?

Over breakfast Ron told Isabel that he'd begun looking into cyber-bullying laws and some of the cases that surrounded the issue. The laws differed between Maryland and DC, but at least they existed; the strength of those laws, he believed, was another matter.

“You remember that Megan Meier case? The 13-year-old who killed herself?” he asked.

She flinched slightly. “The case where that sick woman, Lori Drew, did what Sandy did to Phoebe? That one?” she said.

“Yeah, that's the one.” His voice sounded far too enthusiastic to Isabel, but he didn't seem to notice. “Well, basically she's gotten away with murder. The government brought some pretty unique charges against her, but the judge didn't uphold the jury's guilty verdict. Granted that was before a number of the bullying laws came into existence, but I think it might be hard to convict Sandy since—” he hesitated.

Isabel saw the sweat on Ron's brow. It was obvious that Sandy Littleton now dredged up horrific and shameful memories for him. She felt him studying her.

Frowning, she finished the sentence for him. “You mean since Phoebe didn't die? I know, Ron,” she said softly. “Anyway, I'm not going to do anything right away, but I will look into it. And once Phoebe's…well, once she's better, I'll check with her about what she wants me to do. I'm not going to push her. About this I'm going to take my cues from her. She's been through enough. Whatever she wants I'll do.”

Ron reached across the table and grasped her hand. “I'm glad to hear that,” he said, “really, I am.” Though she withdrew her hand, they sat awhile, staring out the large kitchen window, where a bright red cardinal flew to the bird feeder that hung on the empty branches of a dogwood. His plumage was stark against the drab bark of the tree.

Though it was too early in the year, the sodden gray sky made Isabel think it might snow, something she and Phoebe had always loved watching out this very window, an event that, on weekends at least, often led to baking cookies and drinking hot chocolate. Isabel felt herself growing maudlin, in part because it seemed like such a long time ago that they'd done this together.

She suddenly straightened in her chair. “Of course I'll tell Phoebe why taking some sort of legal action might be the right thing to do.” She heard herself and almost felt like laughing.

Smiling a little, Ron shook his head. “You know what they say.”

“What do they say?” she asked.

“You can't change a tiger's stripes.”

“Nooo, Dad,” Jackson chimed in. “You can't teach an old dog new tricks! Hey, can we get a dog?”

A couple of days later, in Phoebe's new hospital room, Isabel came to an appropriate stopping place in her work before standing up to gaze out the window. Though early in the season, snow swirled to the ground, obscuring the earth behind a cloud of white. Isabel could make out little but the shapes of a few evergreens that stood in the distance. It was like being in a dream. She pressed her hand against the glass to feel the cold.

“I want to go home,” a voice croaked behind her.

Isabel spun around. Phoebe's eyes were closed. She took hold of her hand. “Sweetheart? Did you just say that?”