Just Mercy: A Novel (17 page)

THIRTY

Marty stopped at BookPeople on his way home from the clinic, where he and Dr. Sortiev had finalized plans for his surgery. It was his favorite place to linger over a latté and a good book, although this morning he felt a bit too squeamish for the latté part. Just inside the bookstore’s front entrance, he spotted
The Book of Dead Philosophers
, which he’d wanted to buy ever since he’d read a review in the
New York Times
. He picked up a copy and, with a reverence usually reserved for sacred texts like the Bible or the Koran, carried it to the checkout counter along with his credit card.

Back home, he settled in with the book in the living room, reading for a while and then closing his eyes with a satisfied smile, at times even laughing out loud. How peculiar, it seemed, that reading about death made him feel so alive. The time passed quite pleasantly as he savored each word as if it were his own, from time to time stopping to appreciate the author’s deft prose style by re-reading a phrase. The book made him think about the positive attitude he presented to his family about having cancer even as he kept the source of his optimism—his acceptance of death—to himself. Like Bernie, he believed things were going to be okay; yet, unlike her, he left room for the possibility that they might not be. But he never said any of that aloud, out of a desire to protect his family and because he didn’t want to sound pessimistic, which he wasn’t.

He looked forward to telling Bernie about the book, hoped that she would find it as amusing as he did. He wanted her to know how reading it gave him the strength to look death in the face and see that it was nothing more than a part of life. But, of course, the first thing he would tell her was that the doctor had said everything was going as expected and that Marty had gotten the distinct impression that meant he was going to lick this thing.

When he heard the sound of rolling thunder, Marty put the book down and looked out the window. New storm clouds churned across the darkening sky, and winds whipped the branches of the pecan tree from side to side in the front yard. Bernie should be home by now, but there was no need to worry; if she was still meeting with the adoption worker, that must mean she was getting lots of information.

A flash of lightning slit the sky, and he hoped she hadn’t gotten caught in the storm on her way home. He considered calling her but then remembered what she told him about the dangers of talking on the phone during a lightning storm. Knowing Bernie, she was probably waiting out the storm somewhere. He could see her sitting in Starbucks right now, drinking coffee and going over her notes from her meeting, planning her next move. He turned back to the comfort of his book, secure in the knowledge that if anyone knew what to do when caught in a storm—or anything else, for that matter—it was his Bernie.

THIRTY-ONE

Bernadette stared down at the folder on the other side of the table. Mary Jane Crenshaw’s words still rang in her ears.
Sometimes it’s better not to dig too deep.
If that was supposed to be some kind of warning, then why did Mary Jane leave her here all alone with the damn case file sitting on the table like this? She resisted the temptation to look. It wouldn’t be right. But the harder she fought off the urge to sneak just a little peek, the stronger her desire became. Finally it took hold of her. What would it hurt? If something jumped out at her, wouldn’t that mean she was supposed to see it?

She slid her clammy fingers across the table. She only had fifteen minutes. Well, less than that now, though she wasn’t sure how much less. She had to act fast. Just as she pulled the folder closer, she heard someone out in the hall and shoved the case file away with such force that it landed right on the edge of the table, poised to tip onto the floor. She stared at the doorknob, waited for it to turn, her chest about to explode. Time stood still. Maybe Mary Jane had realized she shouldn’t have left Bernadette alone with the folder and had come back to get it. Or maybe the intern had come back to keep watch over her. The silence in the room was as piercing as a scream in her head. Unable to bear it any longer, she crept over to the door and put her ear against it. Hearing nothing, she opened it a crack, just enough to see that no one was there. She closed the door and collapsed with her back against it, silently releasing the air she’d held captive in her lungs until then.

She sat back down and took three deep breaths. Then, with trembling fingers, she pulled the folder toward her again. It was close enough for her to make out the words on the tab—
Blackwell, Maxine, PS #6875413
—when she snatched her hand back. What was she thinking? It wasn’t right to mess with people’s lives, without their permission, like this. It just wasn’t right.

But she couldn’t help herself. She caressed the cover of the folder with her fingertips. She knew she was playing with fire, but she meant no harm.
Still, what if she got caught? What would Mary Jane say if she came back now? Bernadette removed her hand from the folder and wiped away the moisture that had gathered above her upper lip.

Still, the folder was relentless in calling to her, and soon she found its tantalizing edge between her thumb and forefinger. She was meant to read it. Why else was it staring at her? With a defiance that matched the way Mary Jane Crenshaw had looked at the watchful intern earlier, she flipped open the case file. All she wanted was peace of mind for Raelynn Blackwell. How could that be a bad thing?

In the end, she came up with a compromise. When she came across any names or other identifying information, she would cover them up, erase them from her mind. She did glance at Maxine Blackwell’s name and the names and birthdates of her children on the brittle and yellowing cover page, but that didn’t count because she already had that information. As soon as she turned the page, though, the disapproving side of her kicked in again. She imagined the newspaper headlines, the shame brought down on her family if she were found to have violated the law. It sent shivers through her.

It wasn’t too late to close the folder and do the right thing, but then, wasn’t it the spirit of the law that mattered? Didn’t the situation require her to consider one good over another? She looked at her watch. If she hurried, she could go to just the most relevant parts. She flipped through the pages, stopping at a child protection worker’s report written around the time Rae and her siblings were first placed in foster care.

Based on a phone call from the oldest daughter, an investigation was conducted to determine the safety of the Blackwell children. During a home visit on December 22, 1983, it was determined that Maxine Blackwell, almost eight months pregnant, was despondent to the point of being incapable of caring for her children or herself. The mother had left Raelynn, the oldest, in charge and the girl seemed overwhelmed and frightened. The only food in the house was an almost empty bottle of ketchup in the refrigerator and a piece of moldy cheese; empty alcohol bottles were broken and scattered everywhere, including on the floor; the children and their clothes were filthy and there was clutter over every inch of surface. Due to the seriousness of the situation the children were removed and placed on a temporary basis in separate foster homes until one could be found to take all of them.

A tear slipped from Bernadette’s eye and dropped onto the page. She read on, desperate for more reassuring information. She skipped over the names of the foster parents whenever she could and tried to delete any identifying information from her mind when she couldn’t, until she came to an entry that stopped her in her tracks.

Maxine Blackwell had given birth to a healthy seven-pound girl.

So the baby was a girl, not a boy. And she was healthy. Bernadette read faster.

Maxine Blackwell voluntarily terminated her parental rights and a temporary six-month placement of the newborn was made after which…

Just then there was the distinct sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Bernadette slammed the folder shut and slid it over to the other side of the table just as the footsteps stopped right outside the door. There was a rustling sound, followed by a loud knock, and then the door opened.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” A chubby man in a janitor’s uniform stood in the doorway. “I was just fixing to see if Miz Crenshaw might be needing any more boxes.”

Bernadette placed her chin in her open hand and tried to act nonchalant, but she must have looked guilty or something because the man’s face turned red and he made a hasty retreat, mumbling something about coming back later. Only when she could no longer hear his footsteps was Bernadette able to breathe again. She looked askance at the folder and warned herself to stop, that the next time she might not be so lucky.

But then she thought more about what she’d read. Rae’s baby sister was placed somewhere, but where? And why for just six months? She supposed she could ask Mary Jane those questions, but how could she do that without revealing that she’d opened the folder? More questions about the baby buzzed around her like fruit flies harassing a peach, refusing to leave until they landed on some answers. She grabbed the folder and opened it again, fumbling with the pages until she found the place where she’d left off.

. . . a temporary six-month placement of the newborn was made with the adoptive parents after which it is expected that the adoption will be finalized.

Yes, yes, yes,
Bernadette said to herself as she read on.

The adoptive parents have two children of their own, the older one a girl, the younger a boy.

This was perfect. Rae would be so happy to know her baby sister had older siblings to look after her.

The adoptive mother, a devoted stay-at-home mom, is a former teacher with a college degree in special education.

Excellent. If Rae’s baby sister turned out to have fetal alcohol syndrome or other special needs like those her brother Timmy may have had—which would be no surprise given Maxine’s history of drug and alcohol addiction—the adoptive mom would have known what to do.

The adoptive father is committed to his family and very involved with his children.

Bernadette smiled. Reading the case file had been the right thing to do after all. Now she would be able to tell Rae what had happened to her siblings with much more satisfying detail than what Mary Jane had given her. She went back to the file.

When the adoption is finalized, a modified birth certificate will be issued to the adoptive parents.

Satisfied now that a nice family had adopted Rae’s baby sister, Bernadette’s thoughts turned back to the other siblings. She still might have time to get a few more details about them as well. She turned the page and saw the Application for a New Birth Certificate.

Name of Child Assigned at Birth:
Baby Girl Blackwell
Date of Birth:
February 10, 1985
Place of Birth:
Brackenridge Hospital, Austin, TX

What a coincidence. Rae’s baby sister was born on the same day as Veronica and at the same hospital. That settled it. She knew she’d crossed the line now, but she had to keep reading. Maybe she knew the adoptive parents. Maybe she even knew who Rae’s baby sister was. Wouldn’t it be something if Veronica had gone to school with her?

She looked back down at the file now without restraint, and what she saw made her face burn, her throat close up. She blinked at the blurry signatures at the bottom of the form. It couldn’t be. She blinked again. There was no mistaking it. Something sharp stabbed her in the pit of her stomach. She doubled over. Her breath came in short spurts, and she was afraid she was going to pass out. She gripped the seat of her chair until her knuckles turned white and her hands went numb. She had to get out of there. She made it to the door and stumbled down the hall in a daze.

“Mrs. Baker?”

A voice screamed
no
in her head at the sound of the intern’s voice. She walked faster, not daring to look back.

“Just a minute, Mrs. Baker.”

No, no, no, no, no!
The voice in her head screamed louder. She started to run, slower at first, then faster and faster. Blind to anyone or anything around her, she ran down the hall and through the main reception area. She slammed her shoulder into the heavy exit door, and it gave way, thrusting her out into the crashing thunder just as the skies opened in a torrential downpour. With the driving rain and wind bearing down on her, she ran as fast as her short legs would allow, not stopping or looking behind her until she was too out of breath to go any farther.

THIRTY-TWO

Marty was oblivious to the rain smashing against the windows and the twisting tree branches almost touching the ground until a sudden flash of lightning and sharp crack of thunder that made it sound like the storm had moved right into the living room startled him. He looked at his watch and was alarmed by the lateness of the hour. Just then, much to his relief, the front door opened. Bernie was home.

“I’m in here,” he called out.

She stood in the dark hallway, staring at him with her mouth open. Her hair was wet, plastered on her head like a doll’s. Her eyes looked as if she’d seen something she couldn’t believe she’d seen—not frightened-looking, but more dazed, the way he imagined the survivor of a lightning strike might look, an incongruent coupling of disorientation and heightened awareness.
The Book of Dead Philosophers
hit the floor as he flew from his chair and rushed over to her.

“My god, Bernie,” he said as she fell against him like a rag doll. He helped her to her chair opposite his by the fireplace and wrapped a soft wool throw around her shoulders. Then he knelt on the floor in front of her.

“You didn’t drive in this condition, did you?”

“The man warned me not to,” she said with a vacant stare and shake of her head.

“What man?” He shuddered, gripped her knees. Something really terrible had to have happened to put her in such a state.

“I couldn’t get my car door open. I don’t know how he got my keys.”

Marty grabbed each side of her waist, an awkward attempt to calm her and himself at the same time. A chill shot up his spine as he braced for the worst. “Did he hurt you?” It came out in a whisper.

She turned toward him, her eyes unfocused as if she didn’t understand the question or maybe didn’t hear him. He swallowed his growing panic.

“Tell me about the man, okay, Bernie?” His voice cracked.

“He helped me.” She spoke in a disconnected voice that didn’t sound like her. “He unlocked the door. He said I shouldn’t drive. But I did. I don’t know how I made it home.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she whispered, “he was very kind.”

Tears sprang to his eyes as he felt the terror inside draining away. But when he laid his cheek on Bernie’s thigh, he felt her body tremble, and it made him fearful all over again. He squeezed the outsides of her legs in a futile effort to stop the shaking. She gnawed at her hands, biting away at one patch of skin after another, her eyes darting back and forth, her face paler than white.

“Don’t.” He reached up and pulled her hands away from her mouth.

She shivered. Her eyes were wide, her gaze fixed on nothing.

“It can’t be,” she muttered.

“What?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

“What can’t be, Bernie?”

Her head twisted from side to side in sharp, quick movements as if she’d developed a tic. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Then she started to sob. He jumped to his feet and pulled her up from the chair—he didn’t know why, he just didn’t know what else to do—and held her tight. She started to convulse and gasp for breath, just as she did the night the police officer came to the house to tell them Veronica was dead.

“My god, Bernie,” he said. “We need to go to the hospital.”

He felt a jolt of her body, heard a low moan.

“I’m calling 911,” he said.

“No,” she said pushing against his chest. “Don’t.”

With her hands covering her mouth, she fixed her red, swollen eyes on his face, as if seeing him for the first time since she’d come in the door. He grew wary, wanting to ask if she was ready to tell him what happened but afraid that if he did she might collapse again. She started biting the side of her thumb, and he grabbed her hands and pressed them against her abdomen. She pushed him away and took a step back.

“Marty!” It was a rasping sound, unlike anything he’d ever heard.

“What is it?”

She stared at him. And then, like water breaking full force through a broken dam, she screamed the words.

“Veronica and Rae are sisters.”

His stomach caught in his throat and left him speechless. Nothing could have prepared him for this. He covered his eyes and waited for the arrow on the roulette wheel spinning in his head to land on something, anything that could help him understand what she’d just said, because it made no sense to him whatsoever. He felt her hand on his cheek, then her arms around his neck. He leaned into her trembling embrace, pressed his brow against her quivering neck. And just when he was sure the sharp mixture of pain and fear shooting through his heart was going to kill him, she pulled back and gripped his upper arms tight as a vise.

“Marty,” she said, her eyes big and round, “this changes everything.”

The hot iron touch of her hands made him flinch. What was she saying? What did she mean? It was all too much… too much. He twisted away from her, but she turned him around, forced him to face her. He wanted to resist, but he couldn’t as she took his face in her hands.

“Look at me,” he heard her say.

But he couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see anything. Everything had ceased to exist. Then she kissed his cheeks, each in turn, and he felt his arms collapse at his sides. He buried his face in her throat for protection from whatever it was that threatened to devour all meaning from his mind and life itself and thus destroy his sanity. Destroy him. She clutched his hair and pressed his face into her breasts, and a low guttural sound assailed him, so terrifying in intensity that it wasn’t until later that he realized it had come from both of them.