This Raging Light (19 page)

They're a ways away from me, taking the walk I couldn't, Wren decked out in new glittery Melanie-ish duds. She is telling Dad everything. I know she is. I can tell from the way he hunches over her, rests his hands on her shoulder.

I read once how kids who have been beaten or abused in all sorts of horrible ways—they just want to be back home when they're taken out. They want their familiar comforts. They want to forgive. Everything in them wants that. They don't have the kind of defenses that let them see when they've been wronged. It seems warped on some level, but there's something so pure about it too. Something that gets lost in translation when you start growing up for real.

And Dad. Now we know he can lose it, because he did, so I don't think I can ever feel the same way about him again, but they love each other, at least. I can see it in how she lets him touch her, leans into him, how he perks up and smiles. It's what he needs, I guess.

“Want some coffee?” Carlos hands me a foam cup.

“Thank you,” I say. “This must be a fun job.”

“Something honest about it,” he says. “Your pops, he's going to be all right. You'll see. When he gets out. He's solid.”

“Solid as a rock.”

“Yeah,” Carlos says, “you need to lower your expectations some. Nobody is really a rock. That guy”—he motions to Dad with his square chin—“he spent too long pretending he was a rock. He knows not to do that anymore.” His walkie-talkie buzzes twice. He checks it. “I have to go. You enjoy that coffee.”

Dad still seems shifty around me, pulling on his sleeves, not quite steady in his stance, like he's holding on to Wren to keep standing.

“Will you guys be okay until I get out?” he asks. “Do I need to get you out of that house?”

“No,” I say. “We'll be fine.”

“I thought your mom had you. I thought it would be better if I kept out of it.”

“Yeah,” I say. I've put a row of dents almost all the way around the cup of coffee, and he has interrupted my pattern.

“I'm going to see if I can get some cash sent your way, okay?”

“Dad—”

“Just let me handle it.” And now he does look at me. The waffle shirt under his scrubs has thumbholes in it, just like every shirt he owns.

“Give Dad hugs,” I say. “We have to go. One more stop before the day is done.”

His hand on my arm. “I'm sorry, Tigerlily. About Eden. But I'm proud of you. You did a good thing.” I'm not expecting to feel as much as I do, for him to have just about knocked the wind out of me with his words. “Really,” he says. “You're a warrior. Maybe we all lean on you a little too much, because we know you can take it. We shouldn't do that. When I'm out of here, all of that is going to change.”

“It's fine,” I say. “Come on, Wrenny.”

Dad walks us to the door, “I'm doing everything, like you said. Talking in therapy. Even starting a job next week.”

“That's good, Dad,” I say. “Really.”

“You know what I've been thinking about lately?”

“What?” I ask.

“The ocean. The Pacific. Surfing, smooth over waves. I was really good at that back in the day. I'd like to do that again. So think about that. Maybe when I'm out, we should go. It's a nice life out there.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Either way, it's probably a good thing to think about. I'm glad you're thinking about that kind of stuff.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too. I'm almost there, Tigerlily. Okay?”

Before Flowery House Manager lets us out into the night, Dad hugs Wren so her feet don't touch the ground.

“Are you mad I told him?” Wren asks as we wait for the car to warm up.

“Nah,” I say. “I wouldn't have taken you there if I expected you to keep it secret.” I take my gloves off and put my hand in front of the heater vent. She does the same, and our pinkies almost touch. “I've been thinking a lot lately, about secrets.”

“And?” she says. She looks like a teenager.

“Secrets are bad news. Everybody has them, I think. Or they have things they don't want to share about themselves, things they aren't ready to tell. Some things stay special longer when they're private. But some other things, they get rotten when you can't say, and me asking you to keep secrets, even for a good cause . . . well, I don't think it's right for you.” I turn, put my knee up against the console.

“Okay, then can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” I say.

“I want Melanie to come over and play.”

I surprise myself with a laugh. “Of course,” I say. Instead of having friends over, she has been doing her schoolwork and entertaining herself by watching TV. Not anymore. That's done. “You can have Melanie over whenever. Tomorrow if you want. We're going to work this out. Do you believe me?”

Everything hinges on her answer. If she believes it, I will too.

“Yes,” she says, “because you're you.”

We stop by the hospital on the way home. I peek through the little window, and there's Janie, reading to Eden from a Kindle. Digby is not here. Perfect. I take Wren to the drink machine, buy her some hot cocoa, and ask her to stay put outside the room. Lovely Rita has her in hand when I go into Eden's room.

“Hi.” I approach Janie as carefully as I can, but the Kindle still jumps.

“Some poetry,” she says. “I don't know if it helps.”

“I'm sure it does.” I see Janie's sagging face. “You must be exhausted.”

“Would you like to sit down?” She pulls on the chair next to her.

When I'm in it, I say, “I don't have very long. Wren is outside. But I'd like to talk to you about my mother.”

When I get home, there is a basket of muffins on the porch.

“Thank you!” I yell into the night.

I hope somebody hears me.

Then we go inside. I bring the CD player down the stairs and plug it in, and Wren and I have a dance party, because, as Wren says, sometimes you gotta dance it out.

The next day we wake up slow,
meander around the house. I bundle us in winter gear, and we take our time. No point in rushing when late has already happened. We walk the four blocks to Wren's school on the tow path. I haven't been since the accident, and we shuffle along. Wren is too big to hold hands now, but she takes mine in hers, firmly.

“I was thinking since you don't have to work tonight maybe I'd make chicken piccata. The angel left us some capers last time, and Giada has a great recipe for it.”

“Okay.” I want to say so much more than that, things about being proud and being scared, but there's been too much of that lately.

Our feet sink into new snow.

“Sometimes being late is a good thing,” I say.

“Yeah.” She squeezes my hand, and I know it's not only because she's happy to be with me, walking like this, it's also because this is the place where I would dip down to get to the train car, to get to the rock. I squeeze Wren's hand back, tight, and we walk the rest of the way in silence, a few lone birds crackling from the barren trees.

I don't know what's wrong with the car, but it won't start when I try to go to the hospital after school. I can get around that, I guess, but the fact that I have no phone and I don't know who I would call—it's too much. I collapse onto our porch, and Wren sits next to me. I let my head ease into her shoulder. It's frigid, but I don't have the energy to go inside.

You know how people talk about crying sometimes feeling like waves rolling over them? I've never understood that until now, but when the first wave hits me, it's like I'm holding on. I'm holding on and gritting against it. My eyes fill and I won't—won't let the tears win. But then they do, and I give in. They burst past everything, and I gasp like I'm choking on them and then I sob. Big, gulping sobs that I can't control. Wren holds on to me for real, then, both arms around me. I'm on the street and I'm losing it, and waves come as fast as they go, barely giving me time to recover from one before the next comes. This is drowning. This must be what drowning feels like. But then something that has been trapped inside me is leaving, making room, and it stops. All of it stops just when I think it never will. As quick and fierce as it came, it leaves me be. I'm empty.

The wave took something with it.

“I love you,” I say to Wren. “I mean it.”

“We'd better find a way to get to the hospital,” she says, “if we're going to get back in time for me to make us dinner.”

“I'll take you,” Mrs. Albertson says from behind us.

Mrs. A wants to wait, to give us a ride home, but I assure her that we'll be fine, that Janie and John are here and we'll make it back okay, and Wren and I shuffle out of the car and onto the sidewalk, slosh through the melt, and squeak our way through the halls.

When we get to Eden's room, Digby, Janie, and John are there, Janie and John in chairs and Digby alone at the foot of the bed. It's just a split second before they register that we're here, but it's long enough that I get to see again what a family looks like when nobody is watching.

It looks like lucky.

Janie immediately stands up. “Lucille!” she says, and she gives Wren a hug, then checks her forehead. “I wasn't sure you were going to make it here today.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “My car wouldn't start.”

“We got a ride from Mrs. Albertson.”

Janie goes sharp for a second but softens almost right away. “I'm sorry,” she says. “You could have called me.”

I am trying so hard not to look at Digby or to wonder where Elaine is, and Eden is the palest I've ever seen her. She is shrinking.

“Nothing?”

“Not yet,” John says. No one says anything, and he glances around. Then, as though this whole thing is too much for his sensibilities, he picks himself up out of the chair. “The belly doesn't seem to know there's a crisis at hand. I'm going to get some bad hospital grub. Anyone want anything?”

“I'll go with you,” Janie says.

“You will?” John looks completely shocked.

“I will,” she says, “and Wren will come too.”

She's leaving Digby and me alone and not being very subtle about it. Our conversation yesterday took an odd turn. I told her more than I ever expected.

“Okay,” Wren says, a little dubiously, “but I have dinner plans tonight, so I don't want to ruin my appetite.”

“How about a hot chocolate?” Janie says, “and you can tell me about these plans of yours.”

“Well, come on, ladies.” John looks from me to Digby like he's trying to piece something together. “Maybe you can explain to me what's going on,” he says to Janie on their way out.

I want to pull my skin off my body so I can crawl into it without the eyeholes and disappear into myself, never to emerge again. I want to bound across the room and hurl myself into Digby's arms like one of those cowgirl types at the end of a rom-com movie. I want sunlight and a horse or two standing by while he spins me in circles. The first option seems more plausible, but neither one possible, so I grip the metal on the bed extra tight to keep me steady. I am on a boat, rolling, cracking. I have no sea legs.

I feel him more than I see him, coming closer.

I feel him more than I see him, putting his hand next to mine on the bed.

I feel him, then I see him, fold his hand over mine, in between each of my fingers. He rests his hand just there.

“Elaine?” I say.

He shakes his head.

That's when he kisses me. Different from all the times before. Not like he's going to die if he doesn't. Not like he's stealing it. Like he's taking it. Like he's giving it.

Like he's giving in.

Eden doesn't wake up from her coma. There's no fanfare. No announcement of her spectacular recovery. She doesn't call anyone's name. She just lies there. Nothing else happens except that Digby gives Wren and me a ride home.

Digby never lets go of my hand. Not when his parents come back to the hospital room. Not when we walk down to get in the car or when he shifts gears, even. That's what happens, I guess.

Digby holds my hand.

What I find when we get home scares the living bejesus out of me. At first it looks like there are shadow creatures doing some kind of freaky rite around my car, but as the Beast shines a light on the scene I see that it's Mrs. Albertson and Andrew and Smoking Guy all standing around the open hood.

Digby lets go of me and says, “What's this?”

“I have no idea,” I say.

“Angels! Angels!” Wren bounces, all the poise gone back out of her right now. “They're the angels!”

“Holy moly,” Digby says. “I think she's right.”

“Needs a new battery,” Smoking Guy says. He's so skinny, he practically goes missing when he stands sideways.

I'm trying to figure out what's going on, and there's just no way, no way that this is the explanation. I'd sooner believe in fairies, leprechauns, gremlins. Why is that?

“I'll bring one over in the morning,” Smoking Guy goes on. “Should be a ten-minute thing. No big deal.”

“Say thank you,” Digby whispers down to me.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

Andrew looks nonplussed. “My dear Mrs. Albertson, I thought you said she wouldn't be back until later.”

“Well, I didn't think so soon.”

“Your lack of fairy-godmother skills is appalling,” Andrew says. “If you aren't careful, I'm going to strip you of your wand.”

Mrs. Albertson giggles.

Smoking Guy pulls his jacket straight and rolls his eyes, then takes the rod out of the car hood and lets it fall shut.