Matters of Faith (18 page)

“Give me back that lawyer's card,” I said suddenly, holding out my hand. Why had I not thought of this before?

Cal's hand moved to his back pocket cautiously. “Why?”

“Don't you think we should talk to one?” I asked. “If we're being questioned by the police—”

“They're not charging us with anything, Chloe. The case is against Marshall and Ada.”

“They're still questioning us. And I think we should have someone who knows about the law on our side. What if they put words in our mouths? Make it seem like we said something we didn't?”

“I think you've been watching too many cop shows. If we don't have anything to hide—and we don't—then we don't have anything to worry about.”

“I think you're being naïve,” I said in exasperation.

“And I think you're being evasive and combative, and you're going to wind up causing more problems than we already have,” he replied hotly.

I dropped my head in my hands and pressed my fingers against my eyelids, the chill from my fingertips easing my swollen eyes. I pressed harder, feeling the give, feeling the pressure move through the bridge of my nose.

“If we can't get together on this—this thing with Marshall, Cal—then we already have more problems.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

I took a deep breath. “It means that I need to get your support on this. I need for you to at least act as though your son's future matters to you. We have been on opposite sides of this for, well, for most of Marshall's life, and the thing is, you're just wrong. You just are. You have this blind spot—”

“I have the blind spot? No, Chloe,” he said, and his voice was shockingly gentle, “my eyes have finally been opened. I care deeply about Marshall's future. And if he doesn't take responsibility for this, and he
is
responsible, then I see nothing in Marshall's future but misery. I
was
wrong, I'm not anymore.”

“Then we are in deep trouble.”

He nodded. “I guess we are.”

Oh, how close were we to saying what? I had never been good at ultimatums. I was always too aware of both sides, too afraid that perhaps I would have to follow through on whatever threat I was making. Especially with Cal. I almost always caved first. Except when it had come to our children.

Cal had often accused me—sometimes jokingly, sometimes seriously—of being unable to make a decision. Where we went to dinner, what movie to watch, when to buy something. But he never appreciated all the decisions I made on an hour-to-hour basis for our children.

Choices in groceries, clothing, school supplies, homework expectations, cultural education, hairstyles, dental care, a million decisions made without his input. Because that's what mothers did. Mothers were the ones who knew what was best for their children: It was a biological right.

Right?

“Cal, if we're not together on this . . .”

“Yes?” His challenge was clear.

“Then we're not together.” It had been said, and there was no going back.

“Be very careful about what you're saying here, Chloe,” he said.

“Okay. I won't speak with the police without a lawyer present. I don't want you to, either. I won't say anything that might implicate our son or further their case. I don't want you to, either. I assume, every day, that our daughter will open her eyes. I want you to, also, vocally and with feeling.” Now that I had stepped over that line, I was calm. “If you don't support our children, then you don't support us, or me. And that's not a marriage.”

His face drained of color, leaving his tan a sickly color, and he somehow seemed more fragile than he had a moment ago. “I can't believe that you don't see that I am supporting our children,” he said. “I am supporting Marshall's need to take responsibility for his actions, and I'm supporting our daughter's right for...”

“Vengeance?” I filled in for him. “Isn't that what this is about for you? Don't make it about Meghan. Do you think that if she opened her eyes and talked that she would want Marshall in jail? Do you think Meghan would be happy about what you're doing?”

“I am not encouraging anyone to send him to jail. I am saying that he should be held accountable!” He finally couldn't hold it any longer, and as his voice rose at me, his color flooded back until he was red in the face. “I'm going downstairs now, to talk to the detectives. I'm going to do what I have to do.”

“Then I will too,” I said, turning away from him and sinking down into my chair as he stormed out. The soft click of the door seemed an incongruous period rather than an exclamation point on the end of his anger, and there was some sort of satisfaction in that.

He didn't come back for almost two hours, and I didn't speak to him when he entered. The nurses were making their usual checks and the neurologist had been in while he was gone, but nothing had changed and there was nothing to say to Cal.

“I told them you didn't want to talk to them,” he finally said after inspecting Meghan's respirator number and settling into his chair. His constant attention to the numbers on the respirator grated on my nerves. He wasn't a doctor, or a nurse, he had no training. He just had to look like he was doing something, some outward appearance of control, some useless male trait.

I simply nodded at his statement. I imagined he wanted me to thank him, but I would have been happy to tell them that myself. I didn't need a buffer.

“I'll be back in a while,” I said, feeling generous in giving him that much information, and went downstairs to the chapel. As I knew would happen eventually, there was a couple in there, clinging to each other, their heads nestled in each other's necks. They turned grief-ravaged faces toward me as I stepped inside, hope burning brightly in the woman's eyes before she saw I wasn't anyone of importance in her life.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, backing out and turning toward the cafeteria. The doors were propped open and I scanned the tables carefully, looking for Dr. Kimball and the detectives before I entered. It was long past the lunch hour and there were only a few people sitting at tables, grouped loosely around the coffee machines.

I wove my way through the tables and got myself a bottled water from the cooler, then found a table behind a low wall topped with anemic-looking pothos, and scrolled through the missed calls on my phone. One from an art dealer I'd done some work for a few months ago, and two from Charles Mingus. I hit the call button, and as before he picked up himself.

“Charles Mingus.”

“Hello, Mr. Mingus, this is Chloe Tobias.”

“Oh, I tried you earlier. Thanks for calling me back,” he said, but his voice was guarded.

“I've had my cell phone off. Why were you calling me?” I asked. I should have called Marshall when I saw that Mingus had called, should have found out about their appointment before I talked to him. I steeled myself for the inevitable conversation about who would be taking care of the bills.

“Have you heard from Marshall?”

“No,” I said cautiously. “I've been at the hospital. Should I have? Did your appointment go all right?”

“He didn't show up,” he said. “Calls to your home and his cell phone have gone unanswered—”

“I'll call you right back,” I said and hung up on him while he was still speaking and hit the speed dial for home. No answer. I left a message, then dialed Marshall's cell. Straight to voice mail. I left a message for him there too, and then sat at the table with the phone clutched in my hand, wondering where the hell my son was.

I called Mingus back. He answered the phone coolly. Who could blame him? I didn't like being hung up on either.

“I didn't get him either,” I said by way of greeting.

“Do you have any idea why he would miss our appointment?” he asked.

“The only thing I can imagine is that he's scared,” I said.

“I've been a criminal lawyer for a long time. Clients missing appointments comes with the territory, but Marshall doesn't strike me as the type to just blow it off. Do you think your son would flee?”

“Flee? Of course not. Where would he go?” I asked. It was true. My family was gone, his father's family might as well be. He had friends at school, but I couldn't imagine he would hop in the car and go back to college, or, if I were honest with myself, that he would leave Ada while she was still in town. I wondered if her parents had arrived yet, or if she were still too afraid, or stubborn, to call them.

“Mrs. Tobias,” Mingus started hesitantly, “I am in a bit of a quandary on what to do here.”

“Well, as I said, I imagine he's scared. He probably took the boat out to fish, clear his head. I'm sure he'll call one of us soon,” I said, but I felt no real certainty of that. More likely I would go home to find him staring at the television, ignoring the phones ringing around him, trying to forget how much trouble he was in, as if it might go away. Which only underscored Cal's misgivings about Marshall's maturity level.

“Besides,” I said, “he wouldn't leave while Ada's still here.”

“And that's what concerns me. Ada Sparks was bailed out by Marshall last night.”

“What? That's impossible. I dropped him off last night. He was at home,” I protested, but even as I did a cold pit grew in my stomach. Of course he did. He said he had money in his account, and I left him alone, with his car, with time. Of course he did. I groaned, and Mingus was silent.

“I don't have a great feeling about this, Mrs. Tobias. There's nothing to panic about yet; Marshall isn't due in court for almost two weeks, and there's no reason for me to tell anyone anything at this time. But, I suggest you do what you can to find him and get him back here, or we're looking at some pretty serious charges compounding already serious charges.”

“I'm sure he's just hiding out at home. He's probably got her there and they're just trying to figure out what to do about her parents,” I said, seeing it as I was saying it. Of course that's what they were doing. He thought he loved her, he rescued her, and now they were comforting each other. “I'll go home, get this figured out, and will have him call you as soon as I can.”

“Great. Now, was there a reason that you called me earlier?”

“Oh, yes, I—my husband has spoken to a couple of detectives here at the hospital. I don't want to talk to anyone without a lawyer with me.”

“I can certainly recommend someone.”

“Yes, I would appreciate that.”

“Hang on a sec...”

I could hear the sound of computer keys being rapidly pecked.

“Ready?”

I quickly pulled a napkin from the silver dispenser and fumbled a pen out of my purse. “Go ahead.”

He gave me the office and cell number for Tessa Barker, a lawyer, he said, who would be particularly sympathetic to my concerns as a mother.

“I don't need someone motherly,” I said. “I need someone tough.”

“I don't think that's going to be an issue,” he said. “Let me know if she doesn't work out and I'll give you another number, but I think you'll like her.”

From the tone of his voice, I thought that perhaps it was Mingus who liked Tessa Barker, but I promised to call her, and to have Marshall call as soon as I found him.

A woman with two teenagers in tow sat down in the booth behind me and started explaining, in a cracking voice, what a stroke was. I didn't hear whether it was the children's father or an older relative, and didn't stick around to find out. I was discovering that if I stayed in any one place for too long in the hospital, misery was sure to find me, and I had enough of my own to deal with.

I tucked the phone number into my jeans and left the cafeteria, cracking the door of the chapel and peeking in. The couple was gone and the pews were again empty. I sighed as I flopped down into one and stared at the dove. He offered no answers, what with his mouth being full of olive branch, and I finally dialed Tessa Barker.

Unlike Charles Mingus, she had a secretary, who informed me that Ms. Barker was in court, but that she was happy to take a message. I left my name and cell and Mingus's name, and hung up feeling empty.

There was only one thing left to do. Find Marshall. Like Mingus, I didn't have a good feeling about it.

Luckily, Grandmother Tobias didn't feel the need to hover while he made his fake phone call. He and Ada walked out to the backyard while his grandmother cleaned the breakfast dishes. He could see her peering at them through the window over the sink and he made a great show of opening his cell phone.

He turned it on and it immediately began to beep with messages. He picked them up, and, as expected, they were from his mother and Mingus, escalating in concern levels. In Mingus's last one he told him in no uncertain terms how he felt about wasting his time, and Marshall felt guilt course through him. He deleted it and pretended to dial a number.

He mimed speaking into the phone for his grandmother, even giving a few sullen head shakes before faking a laugh and then mouthing
I love you too
for her benefit. Ada leaned on her crutches and grinned at his superb acting skills. She held her hand out and went through the same routine, though she skipped the head shaking and made the call much shorter.

When she handed it back to him, her fingers brushed his and he ached to touch her. She looked like hell: a tragic day on the boat, a night in a hospital, almost three days in jail, and then another night sleeping in a car would drain anyone's good looks, but he still desired her more strongly than anything he'd ever felt before.