Deliver Her: A Novel (24 page)

CARL

It was nearly midnight by the time they pulled into Swiftriver, where a rosy halo of ammunition ringed the general store’s porch.

“They’re Cam’s,” Iris said. “Got them from a catalog. Lights from authentic fired shells. Go figure.”

Inside, Cam had restored order, chaos from the earlier command post all but erased. With Alex steadfastly refusing to see her parents, and everyone too exhausted to argue further, Carl had accepted Iris’s offer to spend the night at Swiftriver. It would be a neutral spot for the family’s reunion in the morning, she said. Carl fully expected the parents to veto the arrangement, but Meg gave in surprisingly quickly.

Iris said she would make up a couch for Carl; he knew he would spend the night outside Alex’s bedroom door.

After Mia led a silent Alex upstairs, Iris swabbed at Swiftriver’s already spotless counter with a dish towel. Once he checked on Carolyn’s condition, which hadn’t changed, and alerted the motel to the reservation change, Carl found himself at loose ends. Business-wise, Begin Again had some transports pending that he should firm up. He started a call, then realized the hour and set the phone down. Anyway, he didn’t have it in him at that moment to cheerlead the parents through the exercise.

Once word of this accident got out, he wasn’t sure parents would even work with him.

Having checked on Alex upstairs and finding the two young women talking in Mia’s room, Carl came back down and rejoined Iris, who was filling stainless-steel coffee urns for the morning. The generator’s steady hum was broken by the staccato jangle of silverware poured into plastic bins, the clink of ceramic mugs being stacked three high behind the counter.

Her preparations soothed; Carl was all about rituals and order. The day had shattered him. He was beyond exhausted, on empty, emotionally and physically, numb as the frozen branches scraping the general store’s windows.

He allowed himself to be distracted by the mountain landscape on the wall. In the painting, a man and woman clasped a child’s hands, leading her up the mountain, its snowcapped summit a pearl smudge in the distance. The woman was unmistakably Iris, in a long skirt and black ankle boots not unlike her outfit now, bracelets stacked up each wrist. Unlike most women he encountered in these parts, Iris wasn’t swathed in polar fleece. In fact, the Swiftriver storekeeper looked more like a New Yorker exiting a subway.

Iris caught him looking at the painting. “The view from Swiftriver’s porch. As Mia sees it, anyway.” She laughed, bangles colliding when she pushed them up her arm. “I don’t know what she was thinking. I might be a city girl at heart, but I’d never dress like that for a hike.”

She traced the outline of the child in the painting. “When I met her at Hope Haven, I had no idea how much she’d already been through in her young life.”

“Is that why Mia ended up there?”

Iris nodded. Eyes misting, she described the night Mia’s birth father, in a cocaine-fueled rage, sent her mother hurtling down the basement stairs, where she cracked her head against a cement wall. Crouched in a corner, Mia called 9-1-1, whispering into the phone, terrified he’d come after her.

The paramedics arrived too late to save the woman. The father was arrested and charged; juvenile services placed Mia at Hope Haven, where Iris often volunteered.

No wonder mother and daughter were so invested in the shelter—and why Mia was moved to take Alex there. “Mia’s very lucky you were there for her.”

Iris smiled and wiped her eyes. The two connected instantly, she said. “It was awful, but when we were waiting to adopt her, I prayed no family would come forward,” she confessed.

“What happened to the father?”

“The man had no soul.” Iris rubbed her arms, recalling the father in the courtroom in his orange prison jumpsuit, tattooed arms documenting the gruesome tale of his life. The judge put him away for life, she said. “He’s never once tried to contact her. I thank God for that, at least.” Her eyes went to the wall of pictures. “Painting saved Mia, you know.”

“Sounds like
you
saved her.”

“You’re very kind. But it was actually her court-appointed therapist who suggested art therapy for Mia. To help her work through her trauma. That’s when we saw how talented Mia was.”

“Mia’s certainly gifted,” he said. “You gave her a very different life than she might have had.”

Iris blushed. “And she us. We feel blessed. And Carl, your work. I imagine you’ve changed a few lives as well.”

“Some definitely changed today.” He spun his stool away from her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” She hung the dish towel over the neck of the faucet and came around. “What about you? Anybody special in your life?”

There was once.
Iris’s question touched a raw place within. When he eventually returned home, his Pearl Street apartment would be empty, as always. He struggled to make his tone neutral. “Never found someone who could put up with my schedule.”

Nodding, Iris gathered her hair high over her head. “It’s hard to pin your life to somebody else’s dream. Look at me. I never pictured myself in a place like this.” He glimpsed her slim neck before she released her hair, curls spilling over her shoulders again. She leaned on the spotless counter and sighed. “I’m about done here, Carl. Listen. Cam’s been saving some good Scotch upstairs. I’m not much of a drinker, but I could use one tonight. Care to join me?”

There it was: the temptation that had taunted him all day, from his hike along the Kanc to the bar sightings in Lincoln. He licked his lips. At Trinity, singing provided the jolt, and Martin kept the ginger ale flowing, detouring congratulatory drinks sent his way. And he could always find a meeting. They were his backbone. He’d planned to hit the rooms in Woodstock tonight—another anonymous church hall, dinner with Murphy after.

All that had changed. Outside, the world was encased in a steely frost. Carl felt off-kilter. He’d lost control today—of his charge, of his partner, maybe even of his business
.
From the rear of the general store,
the generator surged and moaned, lights flickered, then flared.

Just one. Who would blame him?

Iris disappeared upstairs. He heard heavy footsteps overhead. He made himself a deal: if Cam came back with her, he’d refuse the drink. He rubbed his face, palms cracked and scratchy against his skin. On the counter, water beaded from a pot of defrosting chili into the growing puddle beneath it.

Iris returned alone. She set the bottle in front of Carl and grabbed two crystal tumblers from her nook, peeling off price tags and wiping them on her apron. She filled each halfway and handed him one, clinking her glass against his. “To your health, Carl. And to the girl’s.”

And to Carolyn,
he added silently. The Scotch splashed inside his glass like amber waves. He brought the tumbler to his mouth. The smoky peat mingled with malt under his nose, the tang catching in his throat. He tilted the glass, imagining the liquid spreading over his tongue like honey, the burn in his throat an old friend, the heat in his gut.

Like coming home.

ALEX

Figures Jack’s first question would be about the moose,
Alex thought, watching Mia make up the trundle bed in her bedroom, where the walls were papered with purple drawings of dragons and butterflies.

“You saw one, Al? Lucky,” Jack had breathed when she reluctantly took Carl’s phone in the car.

Then someone shushed him—Aunt Melissa?—and he moved to a new topic. Even on a normal day, her brother changed subjects so fast it was like he was flipping channels with an internal remote. “Al, don’t be mad. I showed Mom your box.”

The notes. Jack
so
couldn’t keep a secret. She was actually surprised he’d held out this long. “It’s OK, bud.”

“
And
I played Dad’s guitar. Mom caught me.”

Better you than me.
“Cool, Jack.” She’d faced the car window for a shred of privacy and lowered her voice. “So, what did Mom say?”

“That she’d take my video games if I used it again.”

“Not about the guitar. The notes. What did she say?”

“I don’t know. Stuff. She cried a bunch. Guess what? Shana’s here.”

OMG. Why was Shana there?

Jack didn’t know. “They talked a bunch upstairs. In your room.”

“
Who
talked?”

“Mom and Shana. Now she’s sleeping on the couch. I stayed up later than her.” Abruptly, he sniffled. “Come home, Al. Everybody’s sad. I miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

“So now that you’re found, you can come tomorrow, right?”

His first baseball game. Obviously, she wouldn’t make it. Neither would her parents, leaving Jack with only Melissa in the stands to cheer him, not his whole family as he had asked.

“I’ll try, Jack.”

“Everybody says that.”

“I know. It sucks.” She wanted to pump Jack for more details about Shana, but her godmother chose that moment to take the phone from him.

“Here you go, Alex.” Mia held out a T-shirt.

“You don’t have to lend me any more of your precious stuff.”

“Don’t worry. It’s old.”

Alex took it, wadding it under her head like a pillow.

Springs creaked as Mia sat on her bed. “Listen. I’ve been thinking about before.”

Alex stiffened.
Please don’t give me any more shit. I’ve had enough today.

“In the car . . . I shouldn’t have said what I said. I wish you’d told me the whole story, but at least you told
someone
.” Mia crossed her legs and leaned toward Alex. “You must have totally freaked out, with a big moose coming out of nowhere.”

“I did. The hole that thing made on top of the car . . .” Touching her cheek, Alex recalled the sleet spraying through the opening.

“It must have been so scary.” Mia’s eyes softened. “Anyway, sorry I went off on you.”

Here it was again: sincerity oozing out of Mia’s every pore. Could Alex trust her? She twirled her braid. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Get some sleep. I heard your parents are coming at the crack of dawn.” She slid under her covers.

“Wait, Mia. Is that girl from Hope Haven OK?”

Ellen was taking care of Reyna, Mia said, reaching up and switched off the light. “I hope that girl figures it out. Reyna thinks running away is the answer, but stuff always comes back ten times worse.”

Alex squirmed. She’d heard the gist of what Mia was saying before: from her therapist and from her mom, angry and bleary eyed at the top of the stairs at two in the morning, pulling her fuzzy mom robe around herself. “I know you’re hurting about Cass. I can’t imagine what that feels like. But you need to face things. Please let us help.” Alex had given her mom the finger and slammed her bedroom door.
How about you and Dad help yourself,
she had longed to yell. Didn’t they have a clue how much she needed them to be a family right now?

But now, crammed on the trundle bed next to Mia, the artist’s words spoke to her heart. (“Truth hurts,” Cass used to say to her when they were younger and arguing over stupid stuff.) Maybe Mia was right. In Lydia’s tears, in Jack’s neediness, even in the serious eyes of Jamie, the girl with the puppy she had never met, Alex began to understand the miserable consequences of a bad decision.

And maybe, just maybe, Alex blaming her despair on her parents was merely an excuse to avoid facing her problems.

Alex rolled onto her back and sighed. Enough reflection for one night. “What’s the deal with these pictures, anyway? Were you, like, obsessed with purple?”

Mia chuckled in the dark. “For a while. My art therapist said purple is the color of good judgment. Spiritual fulfillment.”

Alex felt the hair rise up on her bare arms. Cass at work again. Was it serendipity or destiny that Cass’s parting gift had been purple, too? With a stab of sadness, Alex thought of the lost reminder of happier times.

If only she could conjure a time machine and go way, way back,
before
the vodka-blurred bits, to the start of her Sweet Sixteen, when she and Cass halted at the top of the ballroom steps and shrieked with excitement, drinking it all in: the sea of tables swagged in black and white tulle, the gauzy curtains of the fortune-teller’s booth a shot of fuchsia in the corner, the mirrored reflections of the disco ball (retro, but Cass had insisted) dappling floor to ceiling. Cass yanked her down the steps, and the friends circled the room, exclaiming over the photos topping each table that marked a year of Alex’s life, Cass essential to many of those moments. They were whooping over year sixteen’s—one of Alex, Cass and Shana blowing kisses in Alex’s bedroom—when laughter at the ballroom door signaled the arrival of the first guests.

“Oh, my God,” Alex squealed. “They’re here. Feel my hands.”

“Here. Use this.” Cass handed Alex a cloth table napkin to dry her palms.

“Thanks.” She blinked at her best friend. “Do I look OK?”

“Almost.” Cass reached up and righted Alex’s tiara. “There. Now you’re perfect.” She grabbed Alex’s hand. “Ready for the most unforgettable night of your life, girlfriend?”

“More than ready.”

They stepped onto the dance floor, Alex’s crown catching the disco ball’s reflection, laying lacy patterns of light on the hardwood.

“Ready for what?” Mia’s voice was foggy with sleep.

Alex gasped, horrified she’d spoken aloud. “Sorry. Half-asleep.”

Mia groped for the lamp. “Hey, can I ask you something? What did you mean in the car before . . . when you couldn’t believe it was happening
again
?”

No. Please don’t make me think about that now.
“Um, no clue. I was probably, like, in shock or something.”

Mia gazed at her a long moment. “OK. ’Night.”

In the dark again, Alex suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of going on like this for one more second. She desperately needed to talk to somebody right now—the weight of the day and the year was too heavy to bear any longer.

She turned over to face Mia’s bed. “Her name was Cass,” she whispered.

The lamp back on, Mia rubbed her eyes. “What?”

“Cass.” Alex’s voice grew stronger. “She was my best friend.”

Mia sat up and wrapped herself in a purple afghan.

“I killed her,” Alex sobbed. “I killed my best friend.”