Disguised Blessing (3 page)

Which, she knew, wasn’t fair to Tom. And, basically, she was a fair person. No doubt she would rejoin the organizations she’d once led that had gone on very successfully without her.

She studied the lights across the lake, trying to pick out the Winslow house, finally deciding it was the one with the open, flickering fire out front. She hadn’t been to the house in years but remembered the large parties the Winslows had put on and the enormous barbecue pit where they’d cooked dinner for over fifty people at a time.

The Winslow boys were the wild ones at the lake
when Catherine was growing up. At least one out of the three of them was in some kind of trouble at all times. The youngest was four years older than Catherine, old enough for her to have had a crush on, too old for him to have paid her anything other than cursory attention.

Brian’s father was the middle Winslow boy, the only one who’d actually ended up in jail for one of his pranks. Now he owned his own real estate development company, was happily married to his high school girlfriend, and lived in a two-million-dollar house in Carmichael.

Catherine finished her cider and put the cup aside. A mosquito buzzed near her head. She swatted it away and leaned back against the post again. For several seconds she sat perfectly still and simply listened, to the sounds of water against the shore, the call of an owl, the faint, bass beat of music being played at one of the distant cabins.

At that moment Catherine knew that if her mother moved to Arizona and left the cabin to her and Gene, no matter how much trouble it might be, she could never let it be sold away from the family. She felt at peace here.

Not until she’d made her decision did she realize how much it had been bothering her. Now she felt free to think about and plan future summers for her and Tom and Lynda—the trips they would take to Lake Tahoe in July to watch the fireworks, the hikes into Desolation Valley. This place would provide another link to hold them together, another love they had in common. Tom might not be as enthusiastic
about the cabin as she’d like, but she had no doubt it would grow on him. Especially when they updated things a little. The formica countertops in the kitchen had never bothered her, but she could understand Tom’s feelings about them. He liked to be surrounded by nice things. They were important to him. In reality, it was a very small thing to ask.

Her meandering thoughts abruptly ended. Something in her ordered, familiar world wasn’t right. It was as if the stars had shifted or the crickets had stopped chirping or…the fire she’d been watching at the Winslows had grown larger and moved.

She leaned forward, staring intently at what she convinced herself had to be an optical illusion.

Until it moved again.

T
HE SHIFTING FLAME FLARED BRIGHTLY, CONSPICU-
ously consuming its fuel in a burst of energy. It flickered and flashed, as if playing a bizarre game of hide-and-seek in the trees.

Fire didn’t move. It was rooted to its base. The only way it could move was if its source moved.

She held her breath until her lungs screamed for air. The moving flame had to be an optical illusion—or someone whose clothing had caught fire.

Precious moments passed and still she didn’t move. She couldn’t. As long as she stayed where she was, as long as she didn’t go inside and call, she could escape in the search for yet another explanation.

A mocking voice emerged from the recesses of her mind, echoing the foolishly brave thoughts she’d allowed herself that afternoon. She’d known she was taking a chance expressing such complete and utter happiness. What ego had tempted her to do something like that?

Stop,
she told herself. She stood and picked up the cushion. If fear didn’t turn her into a basket case, head games would.

Lynda had said dozens of kids would be at the party. Why would she automatically assume Lynda was the one whose clothing had caught fire—if, indeed, anyone’s had caught fire?

The pep talk almost worked. She was ready to accept that she’d imagined the whole thing when she heard the choking sounds of a boat motor starting. She hugged the cushion and waited and told herself the sound could be coming from any one of the fifty houses on the far side of the lake. Even now, she sought a safe explanation. When had she become such a coward?

Running lights appeared—at the Winslows’ dock. The motor changed to a low roar; the lights moved. And finally, Catherine moved. She hurried along the dirt path to the cabin. A siren cut the air, drowning the boat motor, calling the volunteer firefighters to gather at their station behind the store.

She moved faster, murmuring a prayer.
Please, God. Let Lynda be safe.
Her toe hit a rock and she stumbled, catching the hem of her father’s robe on her heel. The fabric made a tearing sound and she let out a small cry at the loss.

She couldn’t think about it now. She had no time for small regrets. It was just a robe, a piece of flannel, cut from a bolt of cloth and stitched together on an assembly line, special only because it had once belonged to her father.

What was she thinking? How could she be concerned
about a robe when—
Dear God, it couldn’t be Lynda who’d been burned.
Not her beautiful little girl. Lynda was fine. She was always fine. When she and her father were rear-ended in his car, she’d come through without a scratch. She was lucky. She’d always been lucky. She’d played soccer and Softball and hiked and swam and rollerbladed. She’d even participated in a hundred-mile bicycle race and she’d never been hurt. Not once.

And she was sensible. She didn’t take chances. She thought skateboards were dangerous and didn’t like snowboards.

It wasn’t Lynda.

It couldn’t be.

Catherine slammed the kitchen door against the cupboard as she ran into the house. She grabbed a pair of jeans out of her bedroom closet and stumbled down the hall to Tom’s room as she put them on.

“Tom—wake up. Something’s happened.” She hit the light switch and went to the dresser to get his clothes. “We have to get to the store.”

Climbing from the depths of sleep, he was slow to respond. She expected more and lost patience.
“Right now.”

“What are you talking about?” He rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed. “What’s happened?”

“I think one of the kids at the party got burned.” She couldn’t tell him she was afraid that it was Lynda. He wouldn’t understand and she didn’t have time to explain. “I’m not sure, but that’s the way it looked. I saw the fire—and then I heard the boat
and the sirens.” She flung underwear and socks in his direction and went to the closet for pants and a shirt.

“Catherine, calm down and think about this for a minute. Obviously you believe Lynda is involved, but if that were true, don’t you think someone would have called us by now? The Winslows must have your number.”

They were words she needed to hear, the logic that controlled emotion. “Yes…
no.
I don’t know. Even if Lynda isn’t the one who was burned, she’s going to need us.” Her anger flared when she saw that he still wasn’t moving. “Goddamn it, Tom. Are you coming with me, or do I have to go by myself?”

“I don’t even know where we’re going.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“To the store to meet the boat.”

The tone of the alarm changed from a summons for the firefighters to the siren on a piece of emergency equipment. Catherine stopped to listen more closely. “Something’s wrong. The boat couldn’t be at the store already. Why are the firefighters leaving?”

She threw his shirt at him and raced back through the house, this time going out the front door, where she could get a better look at the road. Flashing red lights reflected off houses and trees as the fire engine made its way along the narrow, twisting road. She whipped around to look at the lake. The boat was still there, slowly moving across the water as if time were as abundant as the pollen.

Could they see the flashing red lights from the
boat? Did they understand the men on the fire equipment had received the wrong information and hadn’t waited for them at the store? She mentally reached out to the driver of the boat, begging him to pay attention. Only then did she realize the reason the boat appeared to be going so slow: It wasn’t headed for the store, it was coming in her direction. It had been all along.

She reached for the porch railing to steady herself. Tom joined her, still buttoning his shirt. She pointed to the boat. “They’re coming here. It’s Lynda. They’re bringing her home.”

Tom looked at the boat and the fire engine. “They’re meeting here,” he said. “We’re twenty minutes closer to town.”

Grateful for his calm reasoning, she put her hand on his arm and admitted, “That didn’t even occur to me.”

“Standing around trying to guess what happened is crazy. I’m going to call the Winslows. Where’s their number?”

“There’s a local phone book for the lake residents in the drawer under the microwave.”

“You should have thought of this yourself, Catherine,” he gently chided. “Somehow I thought you’d be better in a crisis.”

His words stung, not so much from their accusation as from his lack of understanding. “Find out if Lynda is with them on the boat.”

He came back to the doorway. “And if she isn’t?”

“I want to talk to her.”

Alone, she listened to the siren and boat motor
grow louder and realized she was cold, not only on the surface, but bone-deep. She hugged herself and stared at the running lights across the black lake. In the distance she heard the faint wail of a second siren. They must have called for an ambulance to meet them. Was it standard practice? Precaution? Or was it necessity?

She didn’t wait well. She was a do-something kind of person.

Tom came back just as Catherine decided to go after him. “Well?”

Instead of saying anything, he reached to take her in his arms. She backed away. She wasn’t a child who needed a hug. She was a mother in need of answers. “What did you find out?”

Foolishly, he reached for her again. She knocked his arm away. “Goddamn it, tell me what happened.”

“What’s the matter with you? I’m only trying to help.”

“Then tell me.”

“You were right,” he snapped. “Lynda’s the one who was burned.”

She stood perfectly still, her arms at her sides, her hands curled into tight fists. “How bad?”

“They don’t know for sure. Someone said they thought they saw the tie on her sweater catch on the barbecue grate. It caught fire before she could get it free and she panicked. When she couldn’t get the sweater off, she ran. Brian chased her and managed to get the fire out—but not before she was burned.

“According to the kid who was telling me this,
Lynda’s in a lot of pain. Which was why they didn’t wait for the firemen to come to them. My guess is that she’ll probably have to go to the hospital to get checked out.”

“It wasn’t her sweater,” she said numbly. “It was mine. I made her wear it. You heard me. I told her she had to take it.” Lightheaded with worry, she started shaking, just a slight trembling at first, and then violently. She put her hand against the side of the house to keep from falling. “It’s my fault.”

“It’s not even that cold. She really didn’t need a sweater.”

Instead of feeding her guilt, Tom’s words made Catherine realize she didn’t have time for the luxury of indulging in self-doubt or pity. The seeds were planted. The feelings would take root and grow later.

When he looked at her she didn’t see the expected sorrow or concern in his eyes, she saw fear. She immediately assumed he was holding something back. But that wasn’t Tom’s style. He never protected her that way.

Peripherally, it came to her that the boat motor had slowed. They were approaching the dock. She took off without saying anything more. He could follow or stay; at that moment, she didn’t care.

Catherine had expected Peter or Julianne Winslow to be driving. Instead it was one of the kids from the party, someone she didn’t recognize. It took a second to sort through the other worried faces in the open bow boat, all of them teenagers, before she spotted Brian in the back. He had Lynda
cradled in his arms, her face tucked against his neck, her body covered with a blanket.

Catherine reached for the line one of the boys threw but Tom got to it first. She’d been so focused on Lynda, she hadn’t realized he’d joined her.

The motor stopped, leaving the sirens to synchronize in an urgent rhythm, their shrill sound echoing off the surrounding mountains, fueling the sense of urgency.

Of the half dozen kids in the boat, only one looked at Catherine: Brian. She tried to swallow the lump of fear in her throat and almost choked on its size.

Flashing red lights slashed through the moonless night. First the fire engine and then the ambulance pulled into the driveway. Tom anchored the line, then clasped extended hands. Catherine found herself surrounded by young people whose immediate job had come to an end and who now had no idea what to do with themselves. Tom directed them off of the dock and up to the house. Only Brian and Lynda remained on the boat, isolated, abandoned.

Look at me. Say something,
Catherine silently commanded her daughter.
Let me see that you are all right. Give me this one thing to hang on to.

“She’s in a lot of pain,” Brian said. “I don’t think we should move her until the ambulance gets here.”

Catherine nodded, yielding to his request, grateful for the caring tone in his voice. In the background she heard rescue equipment being unloaded and the low sounds of men talking to each other. Help was only seconds away. She should wait; she’d
be in the way if she got in the boat now. But she couldn’t wait. She had to let Lynda know she was there.

She stepped into the boat and knelt beside Brian. He and Lynda were soaked. His face was white, his lips blue, his teeth chattering.

“I read somewhere that cold water stops a burn from going deeper,” he said, responding to her confused look. “I carried her into the lake. It was the best I could do.” He looked at Catherine, a desperate need in his eyes.

She didn’t understand his need, but her heart went out to him. “Thank you,” was all she could think to say. She gently touched her daughter’s hair. A long strand broke off and crumbled to coarse dust in her hand. An acrid smell she refused to let her mind identify filled her nostrils.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” she whispered, afraid to trust her voice with anything more. Lynda needed to believe Catherine was in control and that she was safe.

Finally Lynda lifted her head, gasping at the effort. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m so sorry.” She caught her breath. “Help me. Please help me. I hurt so bad.”

A powerful spotlight stole the night and created a tunnel for the rescuers to follow. Lynda blinked and turned away. The boat rocked. Catherine heard voices and felt someone take her arms and lift her onto the dock where a man wearing a firefighter’s helmet and yellow canvas jacket questioned her,
quietly but persistently. She answered automatically, giving names and addresses by rote.

She stopped listening when she heard Lynda scream. The sound cut through Catherine like acid through cloth, leaving a jagged, gaping hole that terror rushed to fill.

“Be careful,” she begged them. “Please…be careful.”

“Why don’t you come to the house with me?” the man with the clipboard said. “They’re going to take her out of the boat in a minute and we’ll just be in the way.”

What was wrong with him? How could he even suggest such a thing? What if Lynda wanted her and she wasn’t there? “I can’t leave.” She looked past him to her daughter. “She might need me.”

“Is there someone who can drive you to the hospital?”

“My fiancé.” She looked for Tom. He should have been easy to spot in the hushed, anxious crowd standing around the house, but she couldn’t see him. “Which hospital?”

“Barton Memorial. They’ll want to stabilize her there before lifeflight takes her to Sacramento.”

“Lifeflight?” The word hit like a fist. Lifeflight was something they talked about on the news, a last-ditch effort to save someone grievously injured in an accident. How could it have anything to do with her daughter? Frantic, Catherine searched the faces of the men taking Lynda from the boat, looking for a sign that they believed their job hopeless.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you. Lifeflight is what we use to transport people who need more care than we can give them. Your daughter needs to be in a burn unit and we don’t have one here.”

“What about Reno? Isn’t it closer?”

“By air, it’s about the same.” He guided her out of the way of the arriving rescue workers. “Besides, there’s that new Shriner’s hospital in Sacramento.”

Lynda screamed again when she was taken from the boat and placed on the gurney. “They’re putting her on her back—that’s where she was burned. Someone should tell—”