Mulberry Park (17 page)

He hadn’t wanted to keep talking about it, so he’d pointed to the swimming pool and asked if she ever went into the deep end.

But now that he was lying here, looking at dumb little stars some guy in Hong Kong probably made, Trevor realized that the real ones couldn’t be made in a factory. And he sort of got the idea.

He wished Analisa was here so she could pray for him, like she’d done the day at the park—the day God had given him the skateboard. He felt funny praying out loud.

Maybe he could just write it all down, just like she’d done. He could tell God how bad he hurt, how much he missed not having a mom and dad. And he could ask God to fix things for his dad.

Trevor rolled out of bed, went to his desk and pulled out a pen and paper. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to God. It took two whole pages. But leaving it out on his desk or shoving it in a drawer wasn’t going to work. He had to make sure God got it as soon as possible, or else it might be too late.

That meant he’d have to disobey Katie one more time.

So he tiptoed into the hall, where he saw that her bedroom door was open. The light was on and she was wearing her work clothes, even her restaurant vest, so it seemed like she was awake. But her head was drooped to the side, her eyes were closed, and her mouth was kind of open.

No wonder she hadn’t let him come out yet. She’d fallen asleep.

Cool. That would give him time to do what he had to do.

He returned to his bedroom and pulled his skateboard out from under the bed, where he kept it hidden so Katie wouldn’t know he even had it. For a moment, he thought about taking the helmet and pads, too, but it would take a while to put them on. And if Katie caught him…

No, he couldn’t risk it. He had to get to the park and back before Katie woke up and realized he was gone.

As he walked softly through the living room, he spotted the telephone. Uh-oh. That could be a problem. He picked it up and turned down the sound, just like he’d seen Katie do that day those dumb tele-sales guys kept calling and waking her up from a nap.

When he was sure he’d taken care of everything, he snuck out of the house like a Navy SEAL on a dangerous mission, making sure to lock the door behind him so Katie would be safe. Then he hurried to the sidewalk, where he kicked off, setting his board in motion.

It was a little scary being out after dark, but it seemed like someone was watching over him tonight. But not just anyone:
God.

“See?” he whispered. “I believe in you.”

Trevor turned down Second Street and zipped along for a block or two. He didn’t usually go to the park this way, but he thought it might be faster. At the intersection, he turned left on Applewood. The cool thing about this road was that it sloped downward, right into the park.

As he picked up speed, the night air cooled his face. For once in his life, or at least for the first time since he was a little kid, he believed that everything was going to be okay. He was right where he needed to be, doing just what he needed to do.

And look at him now. He was bombing a hill, just like one of the Z-Boys.

As he neared the streetlight, he spotted something dark and jagged on the sidewalk ahead. A crack in the concrete maybe?

He probably ought to slow up and go around it. That’s what he would have done before. But tonight was different. So deciding to jump it, he stepped back to lift the front wheels. Just then, the trucks underneath the board began to wobble, and the next thing he knew, he was flying up in the air.

For a second, it seemed like he might zoom up to Heaven—until he fell back to earth and slammed into the street with a thud.

Then everything went dark.

C
laire managed to keep her tears at bay until she arrived at home, then allowed herself a good cry.

Yet this time, instead of falling into one of those prolonged jags that threw her into a blue funk for days, she actually felt better afterward.

Now, as she climbed from the bathtub, reached for a towel and began to dry off, she regretted running out on Sam, especially with dinner baking in the oven. She’d been worried about what he would think if she’d broken down in front of him, yet she suspected he probably thought worse of her for having left abruptly and teary-eyed.

Of course, she took personal responsibility for her knee-gut reaction, but she blamed Ron for it, too.

In the early months after Erik’s death, Ron had been brokenhearted, too, so her crying hadn’t bothered him. Then, as time went on and he moved through his grief, he’d wanted her to move along with him, but she hadn’t been able to. The smallest thing—a Lego she’d found under a sofa cushion, a Popsicle stick on the back porch, a baseball card in a drawer—would set her off and she’d fall apart all over again.

Ron hadn’t even needed to say anything. He’d just get that twitch near his eye and that crease between his brows, letting her know her sadness was dragging him down. So she’d hid her feelings the best she could.

As a result, this evening, when facing tears, she’d been afraid to let Sam see them. Afraid he’d think less of her.

During her lavender-scented soak in the tub—aromatherapy, they called it—she’d thought about the way Sam had slipped an arm around her and offered her comfort. Why hadn’t she been able to accept it?

Fear of getting too close to Sam? Of facing romantic yearnings again?

That must have been the case, since Sam’s presence had set her more on edge than what he’d said about Russell Meredith.

His comments about Russell’s late wife and son had bothered her more than she cared to admit, though.

Claire had known the woman who’d supported Russell throughout the trial had been his girlfriend, Kathryn somebody. Jones or Johnson maybe?

Either way, the petite brunette, who couldn’t have been much more than twenty years old at the time of the trial, had testified for the defense, swearing under oath that Russell hadn’t been drinking before the accident. But Kathryn hadn’t been a credible witness. The assistant district attorney had brought her to tears on the stand, accusing her of lying to protect her rich lover and asking if she knew the penalty of perjury.

When she’d left the courthouse after her testimony, she’d been swarmed by cameras and the media. They’d quizzed her about her years in foster care, followed by a Cinderella relationship with Russell, and she’d broken down again. At that point, Russell’s attorney had to step in and help her get away from the reporters.

Claire had almost felt sorry for the woman, but at the time, grief and anger had been the only emotions she’d been able to process.

Sam had been right, though. She really did want to put all of that behind her. It was over, and nothing could bring Erik back.

“Oh, God,” Claire uttered more in exasperation than in prayer. “What should I do?”

Would it hurt to do nothing?
an inner voice asked.

No, she supposed it wouldn’t.

Sam had suggested she talk to Russell, a thought too bizarre to contemplate. She would never make a drive to the state prison to see the man who’d killed her son, but neither did she need to fight his release.

Stepping back was a fair concession to make. That way, whatever the boy was going through would be his father’s own doing.

She glanced at the clock on her dresser. It wasn’t much after eight and certainly not too late to call Sam. So she took a seat on the side of the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed his number.

He answered on the third ring.

“Hi. It’s Claire. I’m sorry for taking off in such a rush. I was afraid I’d have a meltdown, and I didn’t want you to see it.”

“Russell Meredith is a touchy subject, and I should have known better than to have brought him up.”

“No, I’m glad you did. It needed to be said.” Silence stretched between them, and she pressed herself to continue. “You were right, Sam. I need to let go of this obsession to see Russell punished. It won’t bring Erik back, and it won’t help me heal. So I’ve decided to back off. I won’t object to his release.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Not necessarily for Russell’s sake, but for yours. And for the boy’s.”

They were at a point where she could wrap up the conversation—if she wanted to. Yet she clutched the receiver as though she could hold on to whatever connection she and Sam had. “I’m not a mean, vengeful person.”

“I know you aren’t. The thought never crossed my mind.”

That was good. His opinion of her mattered more than anything else had in a long time, and she wanted to make sure he understood where she was coming from. “It’s just that Erik was my life. And losing him…”

“I
know
.”

Unspoken words and emotion filled the line again, and she forced herself out on a limb. To ease toward the truth. “I wrapped myself into a cocoon, hoping to insulate myself from any more sorrow than I could handle. But being with Analisa these past few days has helped me come to grips with my loss. Life goes on, and to be honest, I’m finally beginning to feel human again. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue babysitting until Hilda can come back to work.”

“Does that mean that I still get dinner out of this arrangement? Having you around has its perks, Claire.”

She couldn’t help but grin. “You mean my grandmother was right? The way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach?”

“That’s
one
way.”

A peace-filled hush—sweet and tentative—swept over them again. While she’d like to bask in it, she also wanted to confront it, but wasn’t sure how.

The comment she’d made about the way to his heart had been a slip of the tongue, and his response had been a loaded innuendo.

Or had it been?

“One of these nights,” Sam said, “I’d like to hire a babysitter and take you out to dinner and the theater. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

When she was
ready?
Her pulse spiked, and she fingered the hem along the neckline of her tank-shirt. “What do you mean?”

“I’m asking you for a date and giving you an out at the same time.”

A full-on smile broke across her face. “Now
that’s
an interesting ploy.”

“I thought so. Is it working?”

“Actually, I think it
is
.”

Sam laughed. “Good.”

Another silence filled the line, this one loaded with possibilities.

“You left without eating,” he said. “Are you still hungry?”

She placed a hand on her stomach, realizing she hadn’t given food any thought since returning home. “Actually, I’ll probably make a sandwich.”

“You know, I fed Analisa after you left, but I haven’t fixed my own plate yet. Why don’t you come back? We can eat on the deck.”

A sandwich in front of the television suddenly held little appeal. “It’ll take me a few minutes to get there.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

After they said good-bye and the line disconnected, Claire remained seated on the edge of the mattress and scanned the bedroom, which she’d been meaning to redecorate ever since Ron had moved out.

It was definitely time for fresh paint on the walls. Something bright and colorful would be nice, as well as new bedding to match. She might go so far as to replace the furniture, too.

Maybe, in the morning she would call Vickie and ask if they could add a shopping trip to their spa-day agenda, something they’d always enjoyed in the past.

Actually, the idea intrigued her. So did the thought of returning to Sam’s house and joining him on the deck, even if they would have to tiptoe around their feelings.

In spite of an almost overwhelming urge not to dawdle, she did run a brush through her hair and applied a dab of lipstick and mascara. Then she slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and headed downstairs.

She stopped in the kitchen, where her cell phone lay on the counter, and shoved it in her pants pocket more out of habit than need. Then she snatched her purse and keys from the table and headed for the laundry room.

The hint of a breeze whispered through her hair—or so it seemed—and she paused in the doorway that led out of the house and into the garage. Her senses went on alert, and for a moment, she felt uneasy. Unbalanced.

Don’t wait
, something inside of her urged.
Go now.

She shook off the compulsion to obey, as well as any questions regarding her sanity, locked up the house, and climbed into the car instead.

As she slid behind the wheel, she couldn’t help muttering, “That was weird.”

She backed out of her driveway and, after closing the automatic garage door, headed down the street. When she reached the stop sign, she made a left instead of a right, just as if she’d been instructed to do so by someone in the passenger seat.

But there was no one there; she knew because she’d looked.

She turned onto Peachtree Circle, then Chinaberry Lane—another alteration from her usual route. Yet the closer she got to Mulberry Park, the more convinced she became that this was exactly where she needed to be.

Up ahead, the headlights illuminated something that lay in the gutter where the sidewalk met the blacktop road. A bag of…laundry?

No.
Not
laundry. A small crumpled body.

Oh, dear God.

Erik
.

No.
Not
Erik.

She hit the brakes, then shifted the transmission into park, leaving the car in the street, the headlamps on, the engine running. In what felt like one fluid movement, she threw open the door and rushed to the injured child’s side.

A bloody face from a nasty head wound would have made it difficult to recognize the boy, but the red T-shirt that was a size too small, the jeans with the gaping hole in the knee, and the dark hair in need of a trim told her who it was.

Trevor
.

His skateboard lay off to the side—in the street.

Oh, God.
No.
She checked for a pulse while she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, then dialed 9-1-1 and reported the accident. “Hurry. Please. He’s unconscious and bleeding.”

When assured that paramedics were on the way, she took Trevor’s hand, her mind slipping into an instant replay of the day Erik was struck by a full-size SUV and thrown into the bushes at the side of the road.

She’d jumped off her bike and run to her injured son, clawing her way into the brush until she found him lying bent and battered, his blood seeping into the ground, his essence gone.

Trevor’s hand, as Erik’s had been, felt cool and lifeless in hers.

A strange sense of déjà vu settled over her this evening, and she tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the differences: Erik had been on a Sunday afternoon bike ride with his parents and had been dressed in full safety gear, while Trevor had been outdoors at night on his skateboard, alone and without any protection at all.

Still the similarities plagued her, as did an onslaught of questions.

What had happened? Why was he out so late? And where were the helmet and pads Claire had given him?

She directed her questions at God, yet they seemed to dissipate in the air, just as they had three years ago when she’d begged and pleaded with Him to no avail.

Even the unexplained compulsion that had seemed to lead her here like a whisper on the wind had grown still. And just as she’d had no idea where it had come from, neither did she know where it had gone.

“Hang on,” she told Trevor. “Help is coming.”

As a siren sounded and red lights flashed, she struggled to claim a sense of relief.

Near Trevor’s body, on the sidewalk, she spotted a sheet of paper folded several times over. It was crumpled a bit. On the outside, light from her headlamps enabled her to read:
To God From Trevor.

Had he been on his way to the park so that he could place it in the mulberry tree?

Aw, Trevor. I never should have answered that very first letter.

What had she been thinking? She’d never expected it to come to this.

Two paramedics—one a blond woman—jumped out of the ambulance, rushed to the stricken boy and began working on him.

“Rico,” the female said, “Get his vitals. Then let’s strip and flip.”

Then the thirty-something blonde, who appeared to be calling the shots, asked Claire, “Did a car hit him?”

“I don’t know,” Claire answered. “I have no idea what happened. I was just driving and spotted him lying here.”

The blonde, who’d lifted Trevor’s eyelids to look at his pupils with a light, glanced up long enough to ask, “Is he your son?”

“No.”

Trevor
could
be her son, though. If she volunteered to take him as a foster child. To be the mother he deserved.

“He was riding a skateboard,” Claire added, as if that could somehow explain all of this.

“BP is one-ninety-two over one-thirty-six,” Rico said. “Pulse forty-eight.”

“Do you know who he is?” the woman asked.

“His first name is Trevor. He lives in an apartment complex off First Street with a guardian. Her name is Katie. That’s about all I know.”

“Get the C-spine on and get his head in line on the backboard.” The woman who appeared to be in charge glanced at her watch. “Four minutes and counting. Let’s get oxygen started, then we’re out of here.”

As the duo worked together, they carefully placed a still unconscious Trevor on the backboard and then onto a gurney.

“Can I ride with him?” Claire asked.

“Sure. Get in.”

A bearded, long-haired man who’d been standing to the side—Claire had no idea who he was or what he’d been driving—volunteered to move her car and leave it at the curb.

“The keys are in it,” she told him.

After the paramedics loaded Trevor into the ambulance, the man handed her both the keys and her purse, leaving her vehicle now parked safely on the side of the road.