Masquerade (15 page)

Celeste breezed through the kitchen, Father at the table, head in hands.
That’s right. Think long and hard. It’ll be a hot day in December before I’ll let you hurt me again.

At the back door, she shrugged into her coat, slipped on boots, hat, and mittens, and slung the backpack over her shoulder.

Mother grabbed her arm. “This is foolish.”

“Yes, it is. But not nearly as foolish as letting you talk me into an abortion.”

The door flung open, and she trudged through the snow to the Plymouth. She knew exactly where she’d go.

CHAPTER TWELVE

              Sitting on the sofa, Sonya sorted through a box of ornaments. Miller family tradition always included tree-trimming on Thanksgiving eve. In spite of her brush with burn-out, she was determined this year would be no exception. She assured Sam she’d cut back in other ways and draw the kids in to help.

              Tin clinked as she opened a baggie and retrieved a homemade ornament with the name
Lily
nail-punched on the front. She smiled to herself, remembering the year she and the boys used pliers to bend can lids into stars. What a racket it’d been listening to Matthew and Anthony use their tiny hammers and nails to punch their names on their ornaments. “We gotta make one for Lily,” Matthew insisted. It was then she knew the little girl belonged in their family, in spite of all the trauma they’d experienced taking her in.

              A moan drew her attention to the middle of the living room floor where Hannah, Mia, and Lily practiced the Nativity story. Another family tradition. Every year, the kids donned towels and bathrobes and assumed the role of shepherds, angels, and of course, Mary and Joseph. Under   a   blanket,   Hannah,   playing   the   Virgin  Mary,

groaned and held her stomach, waiting for the baby’s birth. Kneeling at her feet, Lily peeked under the cover and cried, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Mia giggled and Sonya joined in.

The girls ogled over baby Jesus, a favorite doll they carefully wrapped in a blanket and laid in the wooden manager Sam had constructed. Doctor kits on the ready, the threesome gave Jesus his first pre-natal exam.

Snarls’ head popped up at a noise outside. He barked and skittered from the woodstove to the front door, his toenails scrapping the hardwood. Sonya set the box of ornaments aside while Tommy, at her knees, jingled a tiny bell in each hand. Feet scuffled on the porch and the door burst open, frigid air whipping in along with Matthew and Anthony. They rubbed their hands and noses. Behind them, Sam tugged on a Frazier fir peppered with snow, easing the bushy tree through the opening. The heady aroma of evergreen mingled with cider and freshly-baked gingerbread.

“Look, you guys! It’s the biggest tree we’ve ever had!” Anthony pulled off his sock cap, and the girls rushed into the foyer, jumping up and down.

“Watch out now.” Sam glanced over his shoulder as he maneuvered the tree around the corner and into the living room. “Shut the door, Matthew.”

Sam yanked off his gloves and tossed them onto a chair. He grabbed the trunk and gave the tree a little shuffle to spread the branches. A gentle spray dampened Sonya’s arm. “Well, what do you think?”

“It’s gorgeous . . . and huge.”  Sonya wiped her arm

as the girls gathered around. “We may have to move the rocker to make room.”

Matthew and Anthony leapt into action. “Can I string the lights this year?” Matthew’s eyes gleamed as he helped his brother move the chair into the foyer.

“I’d more than welcome it.” Sam lowered the trunk into the holder and screwed the bolts. “There, how’s that look?”

“Hmm . . . push it back a little bit.” Sonya said, rising to retrieve a pitcher of water. Try as he might, Sam had never been able to convince her to wait longer to put up the tree. He’d even suggested an artificial tree, but she’d have none of that. Even though the needles snapped like chow mein noodles by December twenty-sixth, she loved the presence of the fresh evergreen throughout the holiday season.

Lily tugged at her hand. “I got present for Jesus.”

“You do?” Sonya swept a lock from the child’s forehead.

She wiggled one of her bottom front teeth. “See?”

Pressing on Lily’s chin, Sonya peered into her mouth. “Oh yes, that one’s getting really loose. It won’t be long.”

“And the tooth fairy will bring you a quarter.” Mia grinned and stuck her tongue through the space in her front teeth.

Sonya drew Mia close. “Yes, I imagine he just might.”

“In time for Crismas?” Lily patted her cheek.

“Maybe,” Sonya said.

Lily drew her mouth into a bow. “Will you help me wap my present for Jesus?”

Persistent child. One way or another, Sonya would make sure Lily got a quarter to give to Jesus. “I tell you what, you help me gather the refreshments for the tree-trimming, and I’ll give you a nickel. I bet by the time Christmas rolls around, you’ll have saved a quarter, whether that tooth comes out or not. Okay?”

“Okay.” She twisted the tooth once more. “But it’s almost out.”

Sonya smiled and took Lily’s hand. In spite of exhaustion, meager finances, or whatever hardship might come, it was evenings like this—all cozy with the warmth of family—that brought hope Lily would still be with them next Thanksgiving.

But regardless of what the future held, she’d be thankful for the present. 

###

A sheet of snow blinded his view of the street as he sat in his easy chair and gazed out the apartment window. Red and blue figures streaked across the covered lawn. He squinted. From what he could make out, the young couple who lived next door laughed and chased their little boy. It looked like they’d started a snowman.

“Mr. Laverty, please sit still.” Ginny, the home healthcare nurse, cleaned his fingers with some sort of strong antiseptic that made his temples throb.

He winced as she picked off dead skin and applied salve, then wrapped fresh bandages around his hands and

applied soothing drops to his eyes. A single honey-colored braid afforded her a false appearance of youth. Given the lines around her eyes and mouth and the flabby neck skin, the woman was probably twice his age. Still, with his burns, he looked older.

“You did great at your last physical therapy, don’t you think?” Ginny moved to the meager kitchen area where a pan of salmon sizzled on the stove.

“If you could call wiggling your fingers great.” He’d only been out of the burn unit a little over a week. Though his hands had begun to heal, the mere act of moving his fingers sent a thousand needle pricks throughout his body.

“It’s a start.” She added a mug of chicken broth to a plate of salmon and broccoli and placed them on a tray beside him.

He sighed. Not mashed potatoes and fried chicken, his favorites.

She pointed to a paper cup. “And don’t forget to take your supplements. Anything else I can get you before I leave?” She grabbed her hat and coat from a chair.  

A wife to dote over him on this cold evening would be nice. “No thanks. You go on. But be careful.”

“Okay then, drink plenty of water and get lots of rest. Doctor’s orders.”

“Rest, right.” He gingerly picked up a fork. “What else am I gonna do?”

“Eat. I left a quiche and orange juice in the fridge. And protein drinks. You’ve lost a lot of weight during this ordeal.”

No kidding. His sagging jogging pants testified to that reality. “Yummy. More protein shakes.” He flashed a sarcastic smile, and she tossed one back.

Admittedly, his appetite grew by the day, and like a mother, Ginny promised to cook more of his preferred foods. Meals high in protein, fat, and carbs would restore his energy and promote healing, she regularly told him. The more she tended him, the more attached he got to her. How he longed to open his heart and tell her about himself. Yet he couldn’t afford to get too close, or he might reveal his secret.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, buttoning her coat. “In a much better mood, I hope.”

She left, and he turned back to the window, practically inhaling the salmon. Ginny kicked through the snow, stopping to admire the snowman. She pointed at the lopsided creation, then tossed a grin and a wave at her patient before trudging to her black Pontiac.

Her tires spun in the parking lot.
Come on, Ginny, get that car going.
It was his fault she had to travel snow-packed roads when she could be enjoying a cozy evening safe at home. But that was Ginny—dedicated to her patient, come rain or shine. Or snow, in this instance.

A door shut and laughter filled the hallway. A stomping sound next door. The young family must be kicking the snow off their boots. Minutes later, pots and pans clattered, along with muffled talking. A television roared to life.

Agony. Sheer agony. All of it. The loneliness. The hunger.  Not  to mention  the patches of raw skin that bled

with every bandage change. Tendons in his left index finger exposed. Hands dry, black, and stiff. His face scarred and deformed like some kind of monster.

It was nights like this when he wondered if living was worth it. Sure, he’d already endured a lot and could possibly be over the worst part of the pain. But truth was, he’d never be the same. And he could never go back to . . .

He squeezed his burning eyes. He felt like an old man, hunched and hurting with every move of his muscles. Muscles once firm and strong, now weak and weary from lack of use.

Who in her right mind would ever want to associate with a freak? He’d never be accepted in mainstream America again. 

He tipped his head back and tossed in the vitamins, followed by a mouthful of water. He missed his beer, but alcohol led to dehydration, which could be fatal for a burn victim, the doctor had told him.

Good. Maybe alcohol could take him out of this nightmare. But he had no way to get his hands on any. Unless he asked Ginny to drop him by the store. Surely she’d support a little fresh air and a change of scenery. Somehow he’d purchase the stuff and camouflage it in a bag or something.

They’d encouraged him to use his hands during therapy. Well, picking up a six-pack or two could prove to be good therapy, especially if it resulted in his demise. Yep, chugalug six or more cans one right after the other, and he’d likely be a dead man by morning.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

             
Candles illuminated the picture window as Celeste slogged through the snow toward the brick ranch on Cardinal Lane. A grapevine wreath adorned with colored leaves and speckled with snowflakes greeted her at the door. She knocked, a tentative rap at first, then more urgent as the wind kicked up, swirling snow around the corner of the house.

              When Barbara opened the door, Celeste fell into her arms, sobbing. She burrowed into the warmth of the older woman’s soft sweater. Barbara quietly rubbed her back.

              Celeste pressed her gloved hands to her eyes. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know where else to go.” There was nowhere else she wanted to go, except home with Joe, but that was impossible.

              After Barbara helped Celeste out of her winter garb, she led the younger woman to the couch and sat beside her holding her hand. Flames danced in the fireplace. Beyond the living room, Celeste noticed the dining table set for two. Barbara expected company, and she was intruding. How could she be so thoughtless? Of course  the woman would have someone in; it  was  a holi-

day weekend.

              Celeste gestured toward the table. “You’ve got company coming.”

              Barbara’s mouth swept into a smile, accentuating her lightly rouged cheeks. She squeezed Celeste’s hand, then released it. “Yes, and she just arrived.”

              “I don’t understand.”

              “My daughter planned on driving up from Kentucky, but with the snowstorm she decided to stay put.”

              “Oh, I’m sorry.”

              “Don’t be. The Lord always has a plan.” Barbara’s eyes twinkled as she patted Celeste’s knee. “Now, you want to tell me what’s up?”

              “I couldn’t stay there, not a minute longer.”

              “Where?”

              “My house.” She rubbed her cold toes.

              Barbara pushed off the couch. “Some hot tea is what you need. Chamomile all right?”

              Celeste nodded, and the older woman scuffed through the dining room in her pink slippers and disappeared through a swinging door.

              The living room glowed with a golden aura. Two pictures in antique frames graced the mantle—a girl in a wedding gown, most likely her daughter, and what appeared to be a family picture taken at Christmas, given the tree in the background. A lacquered rocker sat beside the hearth, an afghan draped over the arm. Under a window in the dining room, African violets sat in a row on top of a wrought-iron stand.