All the Way Home (40 page)

“Why are you curious about that writer, Rory? Has he been bothering you, too?”

“In a way,” Rory admits. “But I wasn’t sure whether to trust him.”

“I wouldn’t. These days, you just never know what strangers are up to.”

“No,” Rory agrees thoughtfully, “you certainly don’t.”

“A
re you all right, hon?”

He blinks, sees that Kelly is staring at him across the table they managed to snag in the crowded Irish pub near Faneuil Hall. Concern is etched in her wide-set hazel eyes.

She’s beautiful,
he thinks—
young, and beautiful, and excited about our future. She has no idea that I’m still hopelessly entrenched in my sordid past. What would she do if she knew the truth? Leave me?

Would I blame her?

“I’m fine,” he says, picking up his mug of Sam Adams and taking a long drink. “Just thinking about that research paper I’m working on. Who says professors get to take the summers off? I’ve spent every day in my office since the semester ended, and I’m not even teaching a course this session
.
”

“You work too hard. Come with me to DC this weekend. It’ll be fun. You can’t come to my dress fitting, though—it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding day.”

“I was thinking . . . maybe we should think twice about having a Christmas wedding.”

“What do you mean?”

“That time of year, with the weather so unpredictable, and so many people having to travel to get there . . .”

“We’re the only ones who have to travel to get there,” Kelly points out, her wineglass poised in front of her lips. “Everyone else lives in the Washington area, since you didn’t want to invite anyone from here, or your family.”

“I told you, I really don’t have much family, and I’m not close to them.”

“Whatever.” She shrugs, watching him. “You’re the one who wanted a Christmas wedding. You pointed out that you’ll have all that time off for winter recess, and I’ll hopefully have my thesis done by then.”

“I know. I just never thought about the weather. That’s all.”

“So what are you saying? You want to move the wedding up?”

Actually, he’d been thinking of pushing it back. Way back. Waiting awhile longer, just to make sure . . .

Make sure of what?
he demands of himself.

That she really loves you?

That the past isn’t going to explode in your face and destroy this whole new life it took so damn long to build?

“I don’t know . . .” He sips more ale.

“Because we can always have an October wedding. The foliage is so beautiful then. Of course, you wouldn’t have any extra time off, unless we could do it Columbus Day weekend—but my parents’ country club is probably booked then.”

“It’s okay, Kelly. We’ll just leave it at Christmas.”

“Are you sure?” She’s watching him closely, as though she’s worried about him.

“I’m positive.” He forces a smile.

“You’ll see, honey.” She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “Everything will work out perfectly
.
Trust me
.
”

“I do trust you,” he assures her.

The question is, Kelly, do you trust me? And if you do—you might be making the biggest mistake of your life.

“A
ll right, Michelle,” Dr. Kabir says, striding briskly back into the labor room, her chart in his hand. “The baby isn’t necessarily premature—”

“But he wasn’t due until August,” Lou interrupts.

“We could have gotten the dates wrong, though he is on the small side—”

“How small?” Michelle asks, tense, still breathing her way through a contraction.

“Not dangerously so. Looks like he’s in the safe zone, over six pounds, and, so far, everything looks okay, so—”

“But he’s still breech?” Lou asks, standing by Michelle’s head. He’s been coaching her, doing his best, to his credit, to remember the breathing exercises they’d used two years ago when Ozzie was born.

“He’s still breech,” the doctor confirms. “But, given his size and the fact that labor is progressing normally, we’re going to have you attempt a vaginal delivery.”

“No surgery?” Michelle asks, half relieved, half intimidated by the prospect of the enormous, excruciating task ahead.

“Is that a good idea?” Lou asks warily.

“I’ve had twenty years of experience, Mr. Randall, and I’ve seen many patients through this type of delivery,” Dr. Kabir says. “We’ll monitor your wife and the baby very closely, and allow labor to proceed only as long as it progresses normally.Michelle will be transferred to an operating room at the end of the first stage, just in case a cesarean section is needed.”

“When will that be?”

Lou asks the question that’s on the tip of Michelle’s tongue, as though he’s read her mind. She can’t speak anyway; another agonizing contraction is taking hold, squeezing the middle of her body from the inside out.

“The length of time depends, basically, on Michelle—on how long it takes her cervix to fully dilate
.
There’s no way of predicting. When I examined her a few minutes ago, she was at three centimeters. She has to go to ten.”

Michelle looks at Lou. “Ozzie,” she bites out, her face clenched against the pain. “Molly . . .”

“She can take good care of him, Michelle,” Lou says. “Don’t worry. She was fine the other day.”

“That wasn’t overnight
.
” She can’t ignore a growing sense of trepidation—a distinct malaise that has nothing to do with labor and pain. She looks at the clock, sees that the hour hand has clicked its way past seven. It’ll be dark soon.

And Rebecca Wasner’s kidnapper—maybe killer—is still out there someplace.

She takes a deep breath, manages to speak over the contraction. “It’s . . . owww . . . getting . . . late.”

Dr. Kabir looks sternly at Michelle
.
“You need to focus on your labor, Michelle. That should be your main concern now. Don’t use your energy to talk through the contractions; you’re fighting a losing battle if you do. Try not to worry about other things—”

“My son!” she shouts, irritated. “He’s alone.”

“Molly’s there.”

“But she’s afraid, Lou!”

She sees the glance that passes between her husband and the doctor.

“Our teenaged baby-sitter is staying with our son,” Lou explains. “Michelle is worried about her being alone with him overnight.”

“Women in labor can sometimes become irrational and paranoid,” the doctor says in a low voice.

“I’m
not
paranoid!” Michelle practically screams, hating both of them.

“I’m sorry, Michelle,” the doctor says, and turns to Lou. “Isn’t there someone else you could call to go over and stay at your house so that she won’t worry about this?”

“We’re trying to reach my mother, but she’s out of town. We left a message for her to get in touch and we’ll ask her to come back.”

“I’m sure your son and his sitter will be fine in the meantime,” the doctor says in a calming voice, looking down at Michelle
.
He pats her hand, which is gripping the bed rail, and urges, “Try to relax
.
Don’t fight the pain, try to breathe with it
.
”

“No!”

“Michelle!” Lou says tersely
.
“He’s the doctor. He knows what he’s talking about.”

She feels frantic, trapped in this bed, in this body, knowing only that Ozzie might be in danger and she’s powerless to do anything about it. “Lou, you go . . . go home. I’ll be fine.”

“No way. I’m not leaving you now, Michelle.”

“Your husband should be here, Michelle,” the doctor agrees
.
“His job is to stay with you and coach you through labor. Both of you need to focus on that, now, okay? For the baby’s sake, and your own.”

“No,” Michelle protests weakly, as the contraction eases and she allows her head to flop back onto the pillow.

“Keep her as calm as you can,” Dr. Kabir tells Lou as he turns to leave.

“I’ll try,” Lou promises.

“No,” Michelle says again, pleading with Lou. “Go . . . please. Before . . .”

But another contraction is building in a fierce, sudden, agonizing wave that sweeps her away before she can utter the rest.

Before it’s too late.

M
olly turns on the television set, idly flipping the remote control from channel to channel. Nothing good is on in the summer, she decides, considering turning it off. But then the house will be silent, and that would be much worse than watching some boring sitcom rerun.

She’s still waiting for the phone to ring, for Ozzie’s grandmother to say, “They’re at the hospital? I’ll hurry right back and be there in a few hours,” or for Lou to say, “It’s a boy! And I’ll be home by midnight.” Anything so Molly won’t have to stay here alone all night.

She puts the remote control on the end table, next to the baby monitor, which is plugged in and turned on. Ozzie had cried miserably when she put him to bed, wailing that he was afraid of the lady in his room.

Molly figures he was talking about the painting of Old Mother Hubbard on the wall above his crib. Michelle had painted her smiling, but you never know with little kids. They’re afraid of the strangest things.

At least, that’s what Molly desperately wants to believe.

That Ozzie was terrified of a harmless, smiling mural of Old Mother Hubbard.

Because there’s no such thing as ghosts, right?

“Don’t worry, Ozzie,” she had said soothingly, rubbing his trembling little body through his thin summer pajamas. “I’ll be right downstairs. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. I’ll be right there if you need me.”

She walks over to the window. It’s dark out now, but she’s reassured to see lights on in her own house next door. She can even make out her mother’s silhouette in the upstairs bedroom window, behind the lace curtain. And Rory must be in the kitchen. A little while ago she heard the faint, reassuring sound of pots and pans clattering through the open screen.

It’s nice to know that if anything happens, Molly can just scream and Rory will hear her and come running over.

What’s going to happen?
she asks herself suspiciously, turning away from the window.
What’s going to make me scream for help?

She can’t help being on edge, thinking about Rebecca. There’s still been no sign of her.

Did someone actually creep into the Wasners’ house in the middle of the night and take her from her bed? Why didn’t she scream for help?

She must have. But nobody heard.

How is that possible?
Molly wonders uneasily.

Her parents and her brother were home, asleep in their beds. Besides, if anyone screamed in the middle of the night the whole block would hear. It’s summertime. Everybody’s windows are open; none of the big old houses in this neighborhood have central air-conditioning.

Whoever took Rebecca must not have given her time to scream.

Molly walks over to the couch and sits on the edge of the cushion, staring idly at the television screen, where Drew Carey is dancing against a backdrop of Cleveland.

I wonder what Rory’s doing?

The thought has just crossed her mind when she hears it.

A loud, distinct thump, and then a scraping sound.

And it’s coming over the baby monitor.

“I
’ve changed my mind,” Michelle says plaintively, standing, doubled over, in the middle of the hospital room.

Lou’s hands are under her arms, supporting her as she waits out another vicious contraction.

“About getting the epidural?” he asks.

“No.” She doesn’t want a needle in her back. No way. Not even if it really does numb the agony of labor. “No, I changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“About having another baby,” she pants, sweat drenching her blue hospital gown. “I changed my mind.”

Is Lou laughing?

Laughing at her?

She hates him.

Hates everyone.

“Leave me alone,” she snaps, straightening, trying to walk, as the nurse suggested, saying it would speed the labor along.

Another contraction swoops in, taking her breath away, and she groans, clutching at Lou.

“Breathe with it, babe. Don’t tight it.”

“I can’t.”

“Breathe.”