Miracle in the Mist (17 page)

"Well?"

He shook himself and then studied the old couple for a moment. They appeared to be in their seventies or eighties. As he watched, the woman helped the old man put on his sweater and then tugged it snugly around his bent shoulders. Then she took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth and kissed his cheek. The man continued to stare straight ahead, showing no sign he was aware of any of her ministrations.

"That's Mr. and Mrs. Albertson. Your neighbors. He's in the advance stages of Alzheimer's. If she had died instead of Alice—"

"How do you know about Alice?" He was certain he'd never told her about Alice, never so much as mentioned her name to Irma.

Instead of answering his question, Irma ignored him and went on. "If she had died instead of Alice, what would have become of him?"

He didn't need Irma's illustration to remind him how selfish his wish had been—that the burglar had gone into the apartment next door instead of theirs. Shame smothered him. When had he become a monster that would shift this terrible burden to another's life just to find relief? How could he have wished for such a terrible thing to befall them?

"Not a monster, my boy. It's easier to bear your pain if you can place it on someone else's shoulders."

He'd gotten so used to Emanuel doing the same thing, that it no longer took him by surprise that Irma had read his thoughts. "I get your point."

"Sadly, I'm not sure you do, my boy."

He shook his head and stood. "I shouldn't wish my bad fortune on someone else because they might end up even worse off than I am."

"There's that, but there's more to this than thoughtless wishes." She sighed and smelled the sunflower. "People are like some flowers." She held up the flower. "This one is self-sufficient. It has all the parts in the blossom to reproduce. But this one… " She reached into her cart full of junk, and to his total shock, extracted a perfect lavender and white orchid. "This one needs another flower to pollinate it to reproduce."

Alvin was confused. He didn't think they'd been talking about reproduction. "I don't understand. What does reproducing have to do with any of this?"

Irma tucked the orchid into a hole in her cap. "You're missing the point. Sit your buns down here." She patted the seat next to her.

Alvin had to fight back a smile at the comical picture Irma made with that elegant flower stuck into her moth-eaten cap. She reminded him of a destitute hula dancer. He bit his lip and took a seat on the bench.

Irma sighed and took a moment to gather her thoughts. "People need people. As a team, or with the help of a stranger they run into on the street. Whichever way it goes, no one can get along in a vacuum. Those two over there," she pointed to the elderly couple, "need each other. Just like this flower," she held up the sunflower, "needs the other parts inside that blossom to reproduce." She plucked the orchid from her cap. "This flower needs another flower to reproduce. Just as some humans sometimes need to call on the help of other humans to get over the rough spots." She stopped talking and studied Alvin. "No matter how you look at it, they cannot make it alone."

Again she waited for Alvin to absorb what she was saying.

He understood her point. Basically, misery loves company. What he didn't understand was, how could he use this lesson in botany to get Frank to talk?

"So how does this make Frank open up to me?"

She smiled and stood. "You've already taken the first step." Then she put the flowers back in the shopping cart, adjusted her cap, and walked away down the path. "You know, this is the first time you've thought exclusively of Frank," she said and then waved a gnarled hand at him over her shoulder and continued on her way. Then she stopped and turned back to him. "Maybe you should give some thought to what the police told you that night."

Alvin watched her go, feeling as confused as he'd been before she showed up. He looked toward the overcast sky, closed his eyes, and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, he was back on the tree trunk. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his thighs, and shifted his gaze to the ground. Despite his confusion and frustration, what he saw made him smile.

There, between his feet, lay the perfect lavender and white orchid. The one flower that needed another to survive and reproduce. "You win, Irma," he whispered to the wind. "Point taken."

***

Clara stood beside her loom, watching Carrie sit silently at the table, clutching a cup from which she hadn't taken so much as a single sip in the past hour. The girl hadn't set foot outside the house or picked up her paintbrush in over four days. During that time, she hadn't even mentioned Frank's name, and she'd done all she could to avoid meeting him.

Although Clara knew it was necessary to have this empathy with an Assignment to help heal her charges, at times like this, when she could feel their pain so acutely, she had a hard time dealing with it. And right now, she could feel Carrie's anguish right down to the soles of her feet.

Unable to stand it any longer, Clara took the seat across from Carrie and then gathered the girl's hands in hers.

"Would you like to talk about whatever it is eating a hole in your heart?"

Carrie glanced up, withdrew her hand, and then shook her head. "You wouldn't understand."

"Don't tell Emanuel that. I'll get fired." Clara laughed, and then, seeing that Carrie had not even cracked a smile, immediately became very serious. "Understanding is a big part of what I do, dear." When Carrie made no move to comply, Clara again pressed her to talk. "Try me."

Instead of confiding in Clara, Carrie set the cup aside, rose from the table, and then walked out of the cottage.

Clara stared after her. Even after Carrie had disappeared from sight, Clara continued to study the closed door. Something had to be done. But not too much. Too much would undo all the good they'd accomplished until now. Perhaps just one of Emanuel's nudges would do it.

Chapter 14

Carrie meandered across Clara's backyard, not really seeing where she was going. Not that she cared. She desperately missed Frank and their chats. But since she'd called off anything between them, she hadn't seen him except from a distance. His absence left a huge hole in her life. At times, she almost felt as if she'd be willing to sacrifice her memory just to have him back.

It had taken several sleepless nights and a lot of thought on her part, but she finally was forced to admit that she was falling in love with the heart surgeon. Rather than bringing her peace of mind, it just turned her emotions into a tangled web of confusion fueled by unanswerable questions. One in particular.

How could she be married to one man she couldn't remember and love another she couldn't forget?

There wasn't much she remembered about herself, but she didn't believe she could do something like that. Then she recalled what her grandmother had said when Carrie had asked her why she'd married a man so different from her. Grampa Bill had been a sweetheart, but he'd also been a rough and rugged outdoorsman, while Gram had been a homebody, elegant and steeped in refinement. He'd been happy tromping through his beloved woods. Gram had been equally as happy sitting in the front parlor and serving tea to her friends from a porcelain pot. But above all that, the love they shared had been very special.

Her grandmother's words rang through her mind:
What you see on the outside isn't always what's in the heart. Your granddad is a rough man on the outside, but soft and smooth as butter on the inside. Following your heart is a good thing, but don't forget to give some notice to what's going on in your head, as well
.

So what was Carrie's brain trying to tell her about Frank? And why wouldn't it tell her more about herself?

Carrie flopped down onto her stomach, her head facing the stream. The grass felt warm from the sun and emitted that special, just-mowed aroma that she always associated with summer. She hitched herself closer to the water and allowed the tips of her fingers to trail through its crystal ripples. The cool caress calmed her shattered nerve endings and even coaxed a smile to her lips.

Carrie slid closer and immersed her forearms in the stream up to her elbows. The cool water felt so good, and she amused herself by watching the water adopt new currents to flow gently around her limbs. She relaxed her arms and allowed the water to pull them along with it. What started out being gentle tugs on her arms grew stronger. At first she was alarmed and started to extract her arms from the stream, but then she allowed it to pull at her. Her body began to slip toward the edge of the bank, and she had no desire to stop it. Bit by bit she moved closer as though some unseen hand were pulling at her.

Almost in slow motion, her body slipped over the bank and into the stream. The water closed over her head.

***

The bathtub was so full that Carrie could hear the water splash over onto the floor. The problem had to be the water pouring from the faucets above her head. She tried to reach for them to turn them off, but something heavy pressed against her chest, holding her down and keeping her fingers from closing over the faucet handles. She fought to free herself.

The pressure increased, pushing her down. Her head went deeper beneath the surface. She held her breath until her lungs felt as if they'd burst from her body. Still the weight on her chest remained in place. With both hands, she clawed at hard flesh.

Through the water she could make out the blurred silhouette of a man. It was his hand holding her down. He was trying to drown her.

Panic flowed through her with a white-hot vengeance. Frantically she tried to free herself from his hold. Her fingernails dug furrows into his flesh. Her legs thrashed against the imprisoning water, her heels beating painfully off the tub's hard bottom. But as her body flailed about uselessly, he continued to hold her down.

Her lungs screamed for air. Her chest throbbed painfully. She had to breathe. No, her mind screamed. You can't breathe yet. Hold on a little longer. Just a little longer.

Just when she was sure she'd held her breath as long as she could, she was hauled to the surface. Gasping and choking, she inhaled huge gulps of air. Water ran into her eyes. She brushed it aside. Standing over her was the faceless man.

"You want to sneak off to the lake, bitch? You want to be near water that bad? Well, I can see to it that you get all the water you want right here."

With a violent shove, he pushed her beneath the surface again. Once more the water enveloped her. She barely had time to hold her breath. Instinctively, her need for survival overriding her logic, she fought against the hands holding her down. Once more, when her lungs were about to burst, he hauled her out.

She gasped for air and sputtered. "No… Please… No… more."

***

"I won't do it again."

"Carrie?"

"No," she cried, fighting frantically against the hands imprisoning her shoulders. "No! No more!"

"Carrie, it's me. Frank." He lifted her upper body into his arms. Her hands still flailed at the air. One caught his cheek, and her nails sliced a scratch across his flesh. He winced, but held her tight. "Carrie, baby. It's me. You're safe."

At last, she stopped struggling and really looked at him. Recognition lit her eyes, and she went limp in his arms. He cradled her against him, crooning softly to her.

"He… he was trying to drown me." Her whispered words feathered his ear.

Frank's blood ran cold. Before he asked, he knew what the answer would be. "Who? Who was trying to drown you?"

She drew back and looked at him. Her hair was plastered to her face as though she had, indeed, been submerged in water, but the rest of her was bone-dry. "The man from my dreams." She turned in his arms and grabbed his shirt in her fists. "He wants to kill me, Frank."

Frank grasped the only explanation he could give her. "Carrie, you were dreaming. You must have laid down here and fallen asleep."

As though he'd slapped her, she pulled from his arms, stood, and backed away from him. "Don't tell me it was only a dream. Nothing in this damned place is
only
anything." Her voice grew so loud that birds abandoned their perches in nearby trees. Spinning, she stared at Frank. Her eyes had grown large and brimmed with the fear she must be feeling. Her gaze darted around them. "Am I going crazy, Frank? Is that why all this is happening? Maybe I'm not even here. Maybe I'm living through some unending grotesque nightmare."

Suddenly, she collapsed in a heap in front of him. The moment he'd stepped through the bushes and seen her body flailing about on the ground, he knew what was happening. She was imprisoned in another of those hellish nightmares that had been haunting her dreams.

He'd never felt so helpless in his entire life. He wanted so much to take away Carrie's fear and pain, but he didn't know how. He went to her and knelt beside her.

"You told me once that Clara said everything that happens here has a purpose. These dreams have to be trying to show you something. Tell me about this one, and then we'll talk it out, see if we can figure out what it's trying to tell you."

She raised her face to him. "What's the point?" The tears had been replaced by a bleak, hopeless surrender that made his blood run cold. "I know what it's telling me. I'm married to a man who's trying to kill me. How much plainer could it be?"

Frank hauled her to him. He would do whatever he thought was necessary to protect her, to keep her away from this monster that wanted to hurt her, and, if her dreams were actual memories, a monster who had already hurt her. Saving Carrie was paramount for him, even if it meant giving up his life outside Renaissance.

"You never have to see him again. We'll stay here. He can't find you here. As long as we're in Renaissance, he can't hurt you." But wasn't he? Haunting her dreams? Wasn't he, by virtue of them, already there? She couldn't hide from the demons in her mind.