Masquerade (5 page)

Intense bubbling sounded from the stove. “Oh, no!” She flew off the chair, turned off the eye. She scraped the mixture in the pan. Burnt. Dropping the towel on the counter, she folded her arms. She was definitely losing it. Maybe she could ask some women at church to help out, just now and then. Her arms dropped to her sides. She couldn’t  do that—those women  led busy lives, too. Many

of them managed farms. Some of them homeschooled their children like she did.

She anchored her hands on the counter
. Lord, I’m stuck, with no place to turn.

CHAPTER FOUR

The last sweater folded on the shelf, Celeste stepped back to survey the bedroom closet. Every item, from the shoe rack to her clothes divided into matching outfits, neatly in place. Joe had agreed to store his clothing in the spare bedroom closet. Good of him.

Excitement coursed through her veins. With the kitchen set up and the living room and bedroom furniture arranged, the house felt like home. Joe’s and her home. How nice that sounded. Now for the real fun—decorating.

She reached for a box marked pictures and knick-knacks. Pulling the crumpled newspaper away, she held up a pewter plate engraved with a covered bridge, a grouping of trees in the background. That would go nicely against the celery green color of the living room wall. She laid it on the vanity and unwrapped another item—a needle-point Winnie-the-Pooh in an oak frame gifted by her college roommate.

Her heart plunged to her stomach. Clutching the frame, she sank to the bed, unable to move. She should have thrown this painful reminder away. Instead, she carted it from their apartment to their trailer to their cozy doll house.

Shaking herself, she rose and dashed to the utility room. After she flicked on the outside light, she ripped open the door and charged toward a garbage bag sitting inside the garage. She fumbled with the twist tie
until the top of the bag fell open. She stuffed the frame deep inside, stepped back, and brushed her hands together.
There. It’s done. No more unwelcome reminders.

She cinched the sack once more, turned, and worked her way back to the house, the stars a silent witness to her deed. Hand on the doorknob, she paused, breathing in the night air.

What was she thinking? She couldn’t let go of that picture. She smacked her forehead.
I must be going crazy.
Turning, she sprinted back to the garage, unearthed the Pooh pic, and marched back to the house, wiping a bit of coffee grounds from the frame.

The wall clock registered eight forty-five when she walked inside the kitchen. Time for bed. One final sip of her now cold tea that sat on the counter, and she moved to the bedroom, hugging the frame to her chest. She carefully wrapped the picture and buried it underneath some blankets stored in an old trunk her mother gave her when Celeste left for college. Fitting, somehow. Her mother took away her baby, but she wasn’t going to take away everything, at least not this small memento.

After shrugging out of her fleece sweat suit and into one of Joe’s tees, she dove under the covers. Light still on, she tossed the quilt back and reached for the lamp on the nightstand. Blessed darkness, except for the moon illuminating the foot of the bed. 
  

Burrowing into her pillow, she breathed deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A calming breath to ease the tension of the week. To ease the anxiety lodged next to her heart, creating an odd pressure that never seemed to go away.

She bolted up once more and rummaged through the nightstand drawer. Chocolate. Comfort food. No matter that she’d just brushed her teeth. After all, Joe often said her life was too rigid. Well, she’d show him. She slipped under the silky sheets and savored the smooth confection.

The door opened. Footsteps approached the bedroom. The smell of cigarette smoke filled the air as the footfalls advanced and stopped beside the bed. The odor burned her throat. How she wished he would give up those things.

“Are you asleep?” Joe’s hot breath grazed her cheek.

She willed her mouth and eyelids still. She loved her husband, but tonight, she simply wanted to lapse into a deep sleep, engaging only the sandman.

He idled for a few seconds, then padded out of the bedroom. The fridge opened. The top popped on a can. Beer. Another habit she wished he’d give up, or at least minimize. Weekend beer binges. Probably good they couldn’t have children.

Rolling over, she faced the window. Such a gorgeous harvest moon. The same moon that kept her company as a child. If she could—oh, how she wished she could—she’d go back and rewrite a few scenes in her life.

She scrunched the pillow and placed her right hand under the side of her head. To the drone of the television, she counted the ticks of the nightstand clock. Sinking . . . sinking . . .

A noise startled her. Did Joe drop a pan?

A bright light shone above her. Bodies scurried this way and that. She tried to move, but the straps anchored her to the bed. Screaming. She couldn’t stop screaming. Why didn’t Joe come and rescue her? Couldn’t he hear her?
Joe . . .

A deep voice rumbled at the foot of the bed. “Calm down, miss. Everything’s going to be okay.”

It wasn’t okay. It would never be okay again. But no one would listen. Was she even speaking intelligible words, or was she merely thinking them?
Please, stop. Stop hurting me.

The man in white, towering at her feet, lifted up a wiggly Winnie-the-Pooh. In an instant, the bear’s features twisted. His body dissolved into slime which ran through the man’s hands and disappeared.

Celeste clawed at the straps. What’s that thick medicinal smell? The blur of white bodies engulfed her, smothering her as she screamed. Hands stroked her wet forehead, pressed her arms, her legs. The weight. She couldn’t breathe. The crowd parted. She gasped for air, glanced about the room. Holding Joe’s hand, Winnie-the-Pooh skipped toward the door, then turned once to flash a grin in Celeste’s direction.
Joe, no, help me! Please . . . help me!
But he was gone. Winnie, too. Exhausted, she lay back in a pool of sweat and squeezed her eyes shut.

              The room whirled, spinning the man and the bodies in white, sucking them up into a funnel and out the ceiling.

Stillness.

Her bed began to spin, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Faster and faster it swirled, slinging her tears around the room. What’s that trickling sound?

Something broke loose. Water rushed in, rising higher and higher, forcing the bed out the door and down the hallway past more people in white, some chatting, others working. No one noticed her. How could this be happening? 

“Help! Someone, help me!
Celeste screamed and tore at the restraints as the bed raced toward a window at the end of the hallway. Crashing through the glass, the bed soared through the air. A ringing sound filled her ears.

“Joe, Joe . . . oh Joe, save me . . . save me . . .”

Celeste trembled and struggled to open her eyes. Were they glued shut? At last lifting her lids, she gazed into Joe’s face. He hovered over her, gently shaking her. Deep lines etched his brow.

He swept a strand of hair from the side of her face. “Bad dream, love?”

Pushing up on her elbows, she pressed her face into his shoulder. “Promise me you’ll never leave me.”

He stroked her back. “You know I won’t, sweetheart.”

She lifted her face, peered into his eyes.

“Your mom’s on the phone.” He scrunched his face.

“Want me to tell her you’ll call back? Or better yet, that you left the country?” He waggled his eyebrows and grinned.

Heaving the covers aside, she planted her feet on the floor and wiggled her toes. “No, that’s okay. I’ll talk to her.” Yawning, she worked her neck muscles and padded to the kitchen, trying to shake off the nightmare. The yellow receiver rested on the antique phone table she’d purchased at a yard sale down the street. “Hello?” Celeste eased into the seat and cleared the morning phlegm from her throat.

“Where were you?” Her mother’s high-pitched voice pierced Celeste’s ears.

Not “how are you?” or “are you okay?” or “did I catch you at a bad time?” No, her mother’s question sounded more like a command from a drill sergeant than concern from a loving parent.

Her gaze darted to the wall clock. “It’s only eight-thirty, Mother.”

The older woman clucked her tongue. “Most able-bodied people are up and running by now.”

She could picture her mother’s brow knit into a frown, lips pursed, shoulders squared. Always ready for action. As the only child of Thomas and Patricia Waite, Celeste received all the parental attention, most of it uninvited.

“Excuse me? A lot of people like to sleep in on Saturday.”

“Don’t raise your voice to me, young lady.”

“Mother, I’m not your little girl anymore.”

Silence on the other end. Surprising.

Joe stuck his head in the kitchen and whispered, using exaggerated mouth movements. “I’ll be outside planting the mums if you need an excuse to get off the phone.” He grinned and tapped the doorframe, then disappeared.

“What’s on your mind this morning?” As if she really wanted to know.

Her mother cleared her throat. A buzzer sounded in the background. “Hang on. I’ve got pumpkin bread in the oven.”

Celeste rubbed her eyes. Crusty. She needed a shower badly. Jiggling her leg, she picked up a pen and doodled on a notepad, receiver snugged between her shoulder and ear.

“I’m back.” Her mother’s voice sounded so loud Celeste had to pull the receiver from her ear. “Your father and I are coming for a visit in two weeks. I wanted to let you know.”

Nice of her to ask. Celeste’s gaze swept to the calendar hanging above the phone table. Maybe she and Joe already had plans. Did her mother ever think of that?

“Wow, uh, good.” She rubbed the side of her neck. “How long can you stay?”
Please say only a couple days.

“Actually, it looks like we’ll get to spend a week with you.”

“Oh, really. Father’s willing to be away from his clients that long?”

“He owns the life insurance business, dear. There are other employees who can cover for him if clients have

concerns.” Her condescending tone bristled Celeste’s skin.

Was it her mother’s intention to make her feel like a child? Most likely, Mother had insisted Celeste’s father take this little vacation. Rarely one to take a break from work, her father seemed happiest on the job. No surprise there. But he rarely challenged his wife’s wishes either, typically going along with whatever she wanted to do.

Heat crept up her torso, filling her face with warmth. Why couldn’t she speak up and put her mother in her place? Just say no, it’s not a good time for a visit. She wouldn’t really be lying. After all, she’d be busy at school. What would her parents do at home all day anyway?

“Okay, then. I’ll mark it on the calendar. Hope you won’t be bored, though. You know Joe and I have to work all week. And you know Schreiber’s a small town. Not much to do here.”

Were those fingernails scraping the phone? Ugh
.
A cold chill crept up Celeste’s spine and flooded her arms.

“Don’t worry about your father and me. October’s a beautiful time of year. If it’s not too cold, perhaps we’ll go to the lake.”

“All right.” She shrugged. “Anything else?”
Please say no.

“That’s all for now, dear. Say hello to Joe. Good-bye.”

“Bye.” She placed the receiver in its cradle. Say hello to Joe. Hah! A mere formality. When had her mother ever liked Joe? He took away her only child. Carrying his baby  had  only  deepened  her dislike. Mother protecting

her little girl. But it wasn’t fair. Celeste didn’t get the right to protect
her
offspring. She thumped her fist on the table and drew a deep breath. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

She couldn’t keep this secret from Joe any longer. He had a right to know.

After a quick shower, Celeste donned an old tee shirt and jeans and swept her hair into a ponytail. The neighbor’s German shepherd barked when she stepped outside, then quieted when she joined Joe in the front yard. Oak leaves tinged with red and yellow rustled in the light breeze which carried the hint of sausage. On his hands and knees, her husband lowered a mum into a hole and scooped potting soil around the base, tapping the dirt firmly in place.