If she agreed to go.

   The place was buzzing with people. Car wrecks and suicide attempts and, probably, other addicts waiting for detox and rehab. And there were other injuries, of course, other sicknesses. Mundane things. A kid with a broken arm who cried on his father’s sleeve; an old lady with a bad cold who coughed her germs into the air instead of onto a tissue or a handkerchief; a sad, worried girl who was holding a tiny bundled baby closely against her chest.

   She was only about sixteen. Her diaper bag was clean, but old and worn out--even though her baby couldn’t have even been a month old--and her coat looked even worse. She looked exhausted and scared and she was all alone. With a sick baby. No parents or boyfriend or husband. On Christmas night.

   I wanted to ask her if she was alright, ask what was wrong with her baby, but I didn’t get the chance. Because a tired looking woman, who I recognized as Registration Lady from the nurses’ desk, trudged in and called her name. Or it might have been her baby’s name. The girl tucked the kid in a little closer, grabbed the diaper bag, and followed Registration Lady into the corridor. She disappeared from sight, off towards a room where she would wait for another eternity to see a doctor.

   I flipped through a magazine and read an article about an actress--a very brave actress--who had gained twenty whole pounds for a movie role. Critics had hailed it as her Best Performance Yet. The article mentioned that, with the help of a gang of personal trainers, a yoga instructor, her very own chef, and months of Sacrifice, she had been able to take off the offensive baggage in time for the premiere of the movie. And on Oscar Night she would stroll down the red carpet wearing a gorgeous, one of a kind, haute couture gown with shoes that matched and a million dollar diamond necklace.

   She wouldn’t pay for them, naturally, because movie stars don’t pay for anything. Plastic faced women on the television would say ooh and ah and gush about how fabulous and elegant she looked and how proud they were because she was so brave for having ballooned to one hundred and thirty five pounds and how much of a Sacrifice she had made in order to slim down in time for Awards Season. Then they’d ask who are you wearing and she’d tell them with pride and everyone would be happy. Dress designers and jewelry designers who would delight to hear their names broadcast to a billion viewers worldwide. Television executives who would crow about big ratings and big, big money. And, of course, the actress would be happy, because of the Attention. And even if her portrayal as a fat ass trailer park mother wasn’t rewarded with a heavy gold statue, she could always comfort herself with knowing she was the Best Dressed Actress at the Academy Awards.

   I tossed the magazine onto a table, leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. Thought about Bravery and Sacrifice. Thought about Brian, who was sitting with Rachel inside a cold, white tiled room. He’d been sitting with her like that for years. And the lonely girl with the sick baby in another room--a room that was just as white and just as cold. Parents who were whispering comforting words to bruised and broken children. The old lady who had probably raised a family, yet was sitting there alone, sick and miserable. They were waiting, all of them. Waiting for doctors and nurses and registration ladies who’d been here all day, on Christmas day. Filling out insurance forms and making phone calls to pharmacies; setting broken bones and giving shots; looking down red, infected throats and up runny red noses; diagnosing sick infants and giving guidance to teenaged mothers. Referring depressed people to the psych ward and drug addicts to detox and rehab. And somewhere, in homes nearby, there were husbands and wives and children whose wives and husbands and parents had been away from them all day. On Christmas day.

   I fell asleep and didn’t know it. Not until Brian shook me, gently, and whispered my name. I blinked myself awake and looked around the room. Sick Old Woman and Broken Arm Kid were gone, replaced by a different kid with a towel pressed to her ear, sitting beside her mother. Then I looked at Brian. His eyes were red and wet and exhausted and that’s when the guilt came. Guilt because I’d fallen asleep while Brian was awake and worried and crying and tired. Because I hadn’t admitted to myself sooner that I knew Rachel was addicted to drugs and now it was going to be that much harder for her to stop. And guilt, still, about leaving her alone. So she could get beaten and raped and knocked up by a sadistic asshole.

   Leaving her alone is what was bugging Brian, too. Because Rachel had agreed to detox and rehab. And while I was asleep Brian had followed a doctor who had wheeled her away to another wing of the hospital. She was shaking again, shaking already, even though there was still Oxycontin in her system. Shaking, he said, because she was afraid. Afraid of the shaking and chills and puking and diarrhea that were yet to come. The aching in her body and brain because every cell inside of her would be calling out for her to give it what it wanted, what it needed. Just. One more. Please? Afraid of Judgment and Condemnation. Mostly, though, she was afraid of being left alone. But Brian had left her anyway. And his guilt was worse than mine.

   I held his hand. “You’re not leaving her alone. You’re making her get help.”

   He nodded, but I didn’t know if he believed me.

   “Why don’t you let me drive home. You look like shit.”

   “No, I’d better do it. The clutch in my truck is really sensitive.”

   It was, but I’d driven it before. I didn’t argue, though, because I knew what he meant was that he needed to drive. Needed to be in control. Of something.

   Before we left the hospital I stopped by the Registration Desk and asked about the girl with the baby. Asked if they were alright. And, of course, Registration Lady couldn’t tell me anything. I looked over her head I saw that they were still in a room, talking to a doctor. So I reached inside my purse and pulled something out. My dad’s Christmas gift to me had been a card. It read:

   So I did.

   I asked for an envelope, put Benjamin Franklin inside and wrote down the name I’d heard in the waiting room.

   “That girl dropped this in the waiting room earlier. Could you see that she gets it?”

   She smiled, but said nothing, which was a relief. I waited until I saw that she’d really gone into the girl’s room before I grabbed Brian’s hand and led him out the door.

   We rode towards home in silence, even though there were a million things to talk about. Questions for him to ask and answers for me to give. And, of course, Condemnation and Judgment and Anger. All I could hope for was that it wasn’t too much. That after it was done there would still be an Us.

   When we reached the sign that read, Welcome To New Mills, he turned left instead of right and I didn’t ask him why. It was a three mile drive down the roughest road in town, but he didn’t slow down. Because at the end of the road was the cemetery.

   It was cold outside, cruel, frigid winter, but there was still no snow. It made it feel even colder. I stuffed my hands inside my coat pockets, because I’d forgotten my gloves, and followed him to the headstone. Her name stood out clearly, illuminated by the headlights of Brian’s truck.

   The dates underneath her name told us that she really had been much too young to die. And that reminded us that life wasn’t fair. He stared silently at the stone for a long time, so close to me that I could feel him shivering. That’s when I started to breathe again, when I knew that we were going to be alright. Because even though his conversation with his mother was a silent one, and even though I would never know what it was he was saying to her...I was still standing beside him while he was saying it.

   When he was done he looked up at the sky, up towards heaven, and I followed his gaze. But there were no stars. They were covered by clouds that refused to give us snow. So he turned to me and asked a question; but it wasn’t the one I was expecting.

   “Tess...how old are you?”

   It was the first time he’d asked since that night on the couch.

   “Thirty-five.”

   He nodded. “It’s been almost a year since I first met you. It will be in March, anyway. So, have you had a birthday already and just didn’t tell me? Or is it coming up?”

   I cleared my throat. “It was the day after Thanksgiving.”

   He was silent, doing the backwards math. It took him even less time than I thought it would. “You brought her there…on your birthday?”

   “It doesn’t matter. It would have been just as hard if it was any other day.”

   He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have let you take her at all. It should have been me.”

   “She needed me there with her. And she wasn’t going to let you do it anyway, because...”

   I took my hand out of my coat pocket and gripped his as tightly as I could. Thought again about the three piles of pictures, and how I could explain them to him.

   “Brian, there are some things that Rachel’s gonna need you for. And some things that she needs to do on her own. And then there will be things that she’s gonna need help with...but not from you.”

   He looked again at Wendy’s grave, at the place where his mother wasn’t. And then he asked me the question I’d been expecting before.

   “Did you know she was taking that shit, Tess? Did you know and just not tell me?”

   “No. I asked her and she said no. And I thought…”

   But I couldn’t lie. Not to him and not to Wendy. So I took a deep breath and I told them the truth.

   “I knew. But I didn’t want to know.”

   He squeezed my hand so hard that it almost hurt. “Me too.”

   Then I waited for him to ask me about the rest; about Tim. Because if he asked I would tell him. And if he didn’t I wouldn’t. Because I need to keep his burdens as light as I could for as long as I could.

   If Brian knew what had Tim had done to her, for all those months and especially after he and Jeff had beaten him senseless, he would kill him. And it wouldn’t change anything. Rachel would still be shaking, just like she was now. And tomorrow and the next day and for a week--and maybe even longer--she’d be hurting and sick and dead inside. Praying to God to kill her for real. To put her out of her misery. But after that there would be Pain and Heartache and Guilt. And some time after that there would be Healing. Home and Love and Safety.

   That’s when Brian would probably have to know about Tim. That would be the time for protecting his sister. Because Tim knew everything. He must know. To Rachel, Haze was a time and place for confession. And if she had told me about stealing my ring while she was in that haze then she must have told her druggie friends about the abortion. And somehow, if it hadn’t already, it would get back to Tim. And he would try to get to Rachel. Power. It’s what he needed. And what she’d need to be protected from. Someday soon.

   But right now Brian was the one who needed protection. So when he didn’t ask about Tim I didn’t tell him what I knew. And when we were home and in bed I held him in my arms and waited for him cry. Because he needed that even more. But there were no tears. Even though he was awake and shaking. Even though he was thinking about Rachel and about his mother. And that’s when I knew. When I knew for real.

   It was winter. Cold, cruel, frigid winter.

Chapter 29

Chapter 31

Table of Contents

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