Not a Sparrow Falls (21 page)

Bridie gave her a look calculated to squelch.

Carmen only grinned again. “I’m playing with you,” she said and walked around the dining room, hands behind her back, ogling everything. “Don’t worry. I’ll behave once I get this out of my system. It’s just that I’ve never been in a real-life blueblood’s house before. This is a new experience.”

“For me, too.” Bridie made a little face.

Carmen’s eyes lit with sympathy. “You look tired.”

“It’s been a long week.” She felt a stab of guilt that it had taken her and Lorna so long to get around to dealing with Samantha’s school situation, but even though there had been no bad nights like a week ago, the reverend had just begun perking up yesterday. Samantha had taken a cold as well, and Lorna had decided to keep her out until they could talk to the principal. Bridie had been hoping that the reverend would be well enough to see to things himself, but even though he was mending, he was still too weak to do much.

“Mrs. Tronsett will see us tomorrow,” Lorna had said yesterday, and just as Bridie had been about to beg off tagging along, she’d glanced at Lorna’s face. It had looked so grim and defeated that Bridie hadn’t had the heart. Besides, from what Lorna had been telling her, the reverend would have his hands full when he recovered. His church was trying to run him off.

“I’d better go,” Bridie said, glancing at her watch. “Our meeting’s at ten. Come into the kitchen and I’ll show you what’s what.” Carmen followed, looking only too happy to have a new area in which to nose around.

“I been thinking about the kid. Why don’t you just let her hang out?” Carmen suggested. “It’s almost Christmas vacation anyhow. By January her pop will be up and around, and he can deal with things himself.”

Bridie nodded. The thought had occurred to her, too. It would make one less thing for her to worry about. “It’s up to them,” she said. “I’m along for moral support.”

It only took Bridie a few minutes to orient Carmen. Her friend was quick and apparently had taken care of lots of younger brothers and sisters. She took to the twins right away.

“
You
are
such
a
doll,
” Carmen said to Cameron and was rewarded with one of his brilliant smiles. He looked like his father, Bridie could see, now that the little face had grown familiar. His hair was the same dark brown, his eyes the same smoky blue. His medicine was working, too. No more runny nose.

“And
you
look like a little princess,” Carmen cooed to Bonnie, who charmed her by lifting tiny arms. Carmen picked her up and nuzzled the downy hair. She turned to Bridie. “I can see why you’re in love.”

Bridie felt embarrassed for no good reason. “Samantha’s reading in her room,” she supplied quickly. “Cameron’s medicine is in the refrigerator. He needs another dose at lunchtime. I meant to make sandwiches, but I ran out of time.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Carmen promised. “What about his holiness? Will he need anything?”

Bridie rolled her eyes at Carmen’s nickname for the reverend. “Take him a tray. Soup, crackers, juice. I’ll be back before naptime.”

Carmen nodded and gave her a knowing smile. “Naptime, huh? You’re starting to talk like a mama.”

****

Lorna maneuvered the reverend’s huge station wagon out of the garage onto Alexandria’s narrow, icy streets. They were crowded with Christmas shoppers and looked cheerful and bright in spite of the sleet and rain. White lights twined around the antique streetlamps, and swags and wreaths of evergreen and holly adorned each shop window and door. Bridie felt a moment of excitement that time and circumstance had failed to dampen. It was almost Christmas.

“I should fill you in on a little family history,” Lorna said, not sounding as if it was something she relished.

“All right,” Bridie said, equally unsure she wanted to hear it. Every fact she knew, every event she took part in, became a thread that tied her to this ragtag little group. What would happen when she was bound tight? She had no idea what the future held for her. But whatever her fate, it would not include these people that she was coming to care about. This was a temporary arrangement, she reminded herself, hardening her heart once again. In fact, come the new year she would see about extricating herself from this web. She would help them find a new nanny, someone permanent. Then she would be free. But somehow that fact didn’t give her the happy feeling it should have.

“Samantha’s mother, Anna, passed away a little over two years ago,” Lorna said, glancing at Bridie as she steered the car onto the arterial.

Bridie nodded. She knew that much.

“Samantha was at school, and Alasdair at the radio studio
taping his program. I’d taken the twins to my house for a few hours so Anna could get some rest. They were ten days old.”

Bridie felt a stirring of dread.

“Apparently Anna decided to run errands and go to the grocery. She wanted to get some chocolate chips so she and Samantha could make cookies. That’s what her note said. But she must have become disoriented. She skidded into the river. Several people saw the car go in. One man dove in after her, but he couldn’t get her door open. Finally the divers came, but by the time they got her out, it was too late.”

Bridie blinked. She’d had no idea what the circumstances of Mrs. MacPherson’s death had been. And now that she knew, she had no idea what to say. It was an awful, awful story.

“Things were terrible,” Lorna said. Her voice was ragged, her cheeks wet. “So dark. My husband and I were still together, and I wasn’t working. I stayed over most nights and took care of the twins.”

Bridie said nothing, just continued to listen. The sleety snow had turned to freezing rain. It pelted the car windows. The windshield wipers thumped a comforting rhythm against it, and the warm air from the heater felt good against her legs.

“At first Samantha was distraught, as you might imagine. Very angry, almost wild. Then she settled down, and I thought—” Her voice broke, and Bridie reached across to comfort her. “I’m sorry,” Lorna said, taking the tissue Bridie handed her from the packet in her purse. “You’d think after all this time I’d be able to talk about it, but it’s so hard.” She pressed the tissue against her nose for a moment, then cleared her throat and went on. “I thought she was recovering. I can see now that things were too perfect. I suppose it was her way of trying to make things right again. Her grades were perfect. Her room was perfect. Her clothing was perfect. Her manners were perfect. She must have needed things. Things she couldn’t ask for. But Alasdair was trying to keep the church afloat. I was busy with the twins. I guess we all just forgot about Samantha. . . .”

“When did she start acting different?” Bridie asked after a moment.

“About six months ago. Right around the time she turned thirteen. It was as if someone flipped a switch. Instead of our sweet, compliant child, she became angry, defiant, hostile. Her grades started slipping, then crashed. She began sneaking out to meet boys, but her friendships with the other girls ended, and badly. They talked about her. You know how girls that age will gossip.”

Bridie remembered what Samantha had said. Being labeled homicidal wasn’t exactly what she’d call typical teenage backbiting.

“Anyway,” Lorna finished, sounding sad, almost despairing. “I’ve prayed so long and often, and yet things just seem to be getting worse. Until you came,” she added, her voice lifting in hope, and Bridie felt a warm thrust of happiness at bringing something good to this sad little group.

“How has Alasdair done with it all?” Bridie asked boldly, feeling her cheeks heat.

Lorna answered without looking up from the road. “Sometimes,” she said, her voice quiet, “I’m not sure he even knows Anna’s gone.”

****

Mrs. Tronsett was around sixty years old, and an old, not a young sixty. She wore a no-nonsense navy polyester suit and low-heeled pumps, a Timex watch with one of the little black string bands that probably hadn’t been sold since 1965. She reminded Bridie of any number of tight-permed, blue-haired little ladies from her past, but the moment Mrs. Tronsett opened her mouth, the resemblance was gone. She was a combination of intelligence and plain talk, and Bridie liked her at once.

“This child is circling the drain, and we’ve got to move quickly,” she said. “The seriousness of her acting out is escalating.” She turned forthright gray eyes on Bridie and Lorna.
“I’ve suggested she see a counselor, but her father seems reluctant. Frankly, considering what they’ve been through, I think the whole family could use some help.”

“Alasdair might be open to that now,” Lorna said, and Bridie read between the lines. Now that everything in his life was headed down the drain, too. There was something about complete failure that left a person open to suggestions.

“Good.” Mrs. Tronsett bobbed her brillo head. “I’ve made a list of psychologists who speak Presbyterian.” Her mouth hinted at a smile. Lorna looked a little shocked to hear the principal of the church school cracking jokes.

“I’ve called Samantha in on several occasions, but our conversations never seem to get past go.” Mrs. Tronsett was all business again. She leaned over and brought a file from the drawer. “Her English teacher gave me this. It was the subject of one of those conversations. I asked her why she’d chosen this topic, hoping to get her to open up. She simply said she was interested in her mother’s new home.”

Mrs. Tronsett handed over three wide-ruled pages, stapled in the corner. Lorna held out her hand for them, then scooted near Bridie so they could read together. The handwriting was the same neat, penciled cursive Bridie remembered from the note on the church bulletin board. “Hell,” the title read, and Bridie got a chill deep in her gut.

****

“Take a look at this.” Bridie looked around to make sure Samantha was nowhere near, then handed Carmen the paper.

Carmen took it from her, gave her a quizzical look, and began to read: “The Westminster Larger Catechism asks, ‘What are the punishments of sin in the world to come? Answer: The punishments of sin in the world to come are everlasting separation from the comfortable presence of God, and most grievous torments in soul and body, without intermission, in hell fire forever.’ Whoa!” Carmen murmured.

“Go on reading,” Bridie said grimly.

“What, exactly, is hell like?” Carmen read. “Is it a lake of fire, a place where worms eat your body day and night? Do you see reruns of all your mistakes and sins over and over? Or is it nothing? Just empty and black? No one knows for sure, because once you get there, you can never leave.” Carmen gave her head a shake. “This is pretty tortured stuff for a thirteen-year-old. Next thing you know she’ll be like one of those Goths with the black lipstick and hair, and the nails through the lip.”

Bridie snatched the paper from her hand and gave her an irritated look. “Carmen, that’s not exactly helpful right now,” she snapped.

“Sorry.” Carmen had the grace to look ashamed.

Bridie slumped down in the kitchen chair and looked at that awful essay one more time. She practically knew it by heart.

“What are you guys gonna do for the kid?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice flat. When she looked up Carmen was biting her lip, looking at her sympathetically.

“You really care about her, don’t you?”

Did she? She rubbed her neck, which felt kinked and knotted. She had absolutely no idea what to do, but the truth was, that fact bothered her deeply. “I guess I do.”

Carmen held out her hand for the paper. “Please?” she asked. “I’ll be nice this time.”

Bridie handed it over.

Carmen reread the essay, her face intent, then looked up. “She said this is where her ma was?”

Bridie nodded. “Said she wanted to learn about her mother’s new home.”

“Now, why would she think that?” Carmen asked, as usual coming straight to the point. “Her ma must have been religious to end up married to his holiness. So why would Samantha think she’d go to hell when she died?”

Sixteen

Alasdair lay in the bed and stared up at the water-stained ceiling. His covers were soft and fragrant, not the scratchy, balled-up mess he’d begun with. She’d changed them, the first time early in his illness. He’d gotten up to use the bathroom. He’d come back and the bed had been fresh. A quilt he vaguely remembered from his childhood had replaced the wool blanket. The sheets had been changed, the corner turned down invitingly. A clean pajama bottom and a pair of underwear had been draped at the foot of the bed. The tray on the bedside table held a fresh pitcher of water with ice and lemon and a clean glass. The wastebasket had been emptied of the used tissues.

It was true what was said of illness, that it made the world end at the foot of your bed. For ten days now, by his calculation, his world had consisted of heat and thirst, swirling illness, ravaging coughs, dry, wasting, lip-cracking fevers, and Her. Their connection felt primal and intimate. Hers had been the hands that held the pan when he was sick, taken it away when he was finished, and cleaned him up. Her cool palm had pressed his forehead, held his hand. Her steady blue eyes brought him back from the jumbled jungle of fever dreams. Her calm voice was like a strong rope tying him fast when he had no strength left to hold on.

During that time the realities of his life had loosened their hold. He had children. They visited his dreams, but he didn’t see them in the flesh. The things he did in the world that had seemed so important became far points on a distant horizon that receded even farther each day. Even the church no longer had the power to lift him up or cast him down. He was cast down already. His spirit, along with his body, felt wracked and broken. He’d been cut back like a pruned vine. Back to the ground. Back to the root.

“When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O Lord, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul.”

He said it aloud, his voice sounding ragged and out of use. It had been one of the verses she’d recited. Promise after promise she had poured from her heart to his. He didn’t think she’d been reading, though he couldn’t be sure. In fact, he couldn’t be sure it had actually happened. The whole memory might have been one of his overheated dreams. But he didn’t think so. The scene was too real, too clear to have been a dream. He remembered weeping as the sheer weight of his sins and omissions had crashed upon him. He remembered her leaning over him, reminding him, reciting the words that kept despair at bay. No. It had not been his imagination. It had happened. Of that much he was sure. If she had not been the one who had defended him against the darkness, then it must have been one of God’s own messengers, sent to fight for him when he had no strength of his own.