Revenge (17 page)

Daddy wears a cashmere suit. I am
cloth
ed in some dress I bought in Milan a month ago.

I’m drinking a mimosa and the waiter delivers a glass of cocktail shrimp bigger than my fist.

“Why are you talking like that?” I ask, persisting. He’s looking at me, his own brow tight with frustration.

Every third word out of his mouth is silent.

Its as if someone hits a mute button each time.

“Carrie,” he says. “Want. Think. What. Doing.”

I drink my mimosa in a furious gulp. “Stop it, Daddy! Stop it!” I slam the glass onto the white linen table cloth.
I
t shatters, a sharp piece of glass digging into my wrist.

Red blooms, like a rose opening in sunlight. My blood fills the cloth, taking it over, all of the cloth in the room turning crimson red.

I look at Daddy.

His eyes have gone blood red, too.

Something wet licks at my ankle. I look down.

Blood.

The room is filling with blood, waves of it crashing against my ankles, the table legs, covering all the men’s black wing tips in the room. People talk and drink and eat as if nothing’s happening.

Their eyes have all turned red, too.

I stand and scream.

No one notices.

Daddy reaches for me and grabs my wrist, scratching me.

I wake up, clawing at my throat, the scream in there but trapped. It feels like a tennis ball lodged in my throat. I rip the covers off me and frantically touch my ankles.

No blood.

The trailer is hot and stuffy, shaking slightly as I move around. I pant, the sound an echo in my ears. It feels like someone is scraping the inside of my head with a nail file.

My heart beats in triple time, pumping blood.

I touch my wrists. No new scratches. Just the one Eric left there on Friday,
barely visible now
.

I look at my phone. It’s
Fri
day
again
. 4:11 a.m.

Slumping back, I stare at the fiberglass ceiling, my heart pounding so hard I c
a
n look down and see it rise and fall. A vein in my neck starts to flutter. I reach up and press two fingers to it. It calms down instantly.

If only I could do the same to my entire body.

What the heck did that dream mean? The letter from my dad clearly invaded my dreams, but the blood? All those people acting like nothing was happening? Breaking the glass and bleeding? My own dad hurting me? Talk about symbolism.

Images from the dream go through my head and I try to will them away.

Half an hour later I give up and just start making coffee.
T
he motion of scooping the grounds into the filter, filling the tiny coffee pot from the sink, clicking and pushing buttons and listening for the first tell-tale sounds of gurgling all help to b
rin
g the scatter
ed
pieces of me back together.

I turn on the radio and find a quiet classic rock station. This was the music Dad and Brian always played in the bar. “Freebird” comes on and I sit in the cramped little bed, waiting for the coffee machine to make its final hiss.

My heart is finally back to normal. Normal beat, that is.

Nothing is “normal,” really.

As steam rises from the back of the coffee pot, I stand, pour a cup, add some milk and cinnamon, then settle back, propping myself up on pillows. I close my eyes and inhale. The coffee smells like heaven.
T
astes like it, too.

I remember how Mark and I let our coffee go tepid the morning we made love. A smile twitches on my lips. Mark.
H
e’s who I should be dreaming about.

Not a room full of people with blood eyes.

I wish he were here.
He never answered my text about Claudia’s mom.
I wish I could tell Mark everything I’ve learned. I wish I could hear his voice. Even a text from him would be enough right now.
So many
days wit
h
no contact feels like three years. I know we’re still together and he’s gone just for work. My rational brain understands.

My emotional center weeps with each passing hour.

My phone rings suddenly.

I scream, spil
l
ing coffee all over my arm. The burn makes me freak out and I shove my arm away from me further, spilling mor
e
all over my bed spread. I rush to put the half-full mug on the shelf behind my head and paw at my body, trying to find my phone.

I
t’s u
n
der my ass.

Waving my burned arm, I answer just in time. The number just says, “UNLISTED.”

“
H
ello?”

“Carrie?”

I
t’s Mark.

“
Mark! Mark!” My burnt hand suddenly feels fine. “Oh, God, I miss you.”
 

“Miss yo
u
too,” he says in a clipped voice. No nonsense. All business. “Sorry to call so early.”

It’s 4:54 a.m.

“I was up.”

“You were?” His voice goes shar
p
. “Is everything okay?”

“I had a nightmare.”

“Oh.” That simple sound has compassion in it. “I wish I were there,” he says in a whisper. His tone makes me feel blanketed by protectiveness.
I
f he were here, he’d hold me. He’d let me tell the story of the n
i
ghtmare. We’d
talk about it
and try to understand its meaning.

I know that. I know that now. I know he’s mine and I’m his.

“I wish you were, too. When are you coming home?”

“Tomorrow.”

Disappointment makes my stomach drop. “Another day?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t help it.” I try not to sound sad.

“You sound like your puppy died,” he says in a joking voice.

Puppy. Dog. Dean Landau and Claudia at the shelter. I want to tell him the story, and start to say something,
especially about the picture of Claudia’s mother I found in the dean’s office,
but then:

“I have to go, honey. I just wanted to take a minute to call. I love you,” he says, his voice so low I can barely hear the words.

I feel them, though.

“I love you, too, Mark.”

“Tomorrow
morning
. I’ll fin
d
you.”
Click.
 

And just like that, he’s gone.

I set down my phone and look at the mess. My forearm is turning a nasty pink, and it stings.
I
t isn’t a deep burn, though. I stand and cross to th
e
kitchen sink, where I fill the tiny little bowl with cool water and immerse my forearm.

Within a few minutes it feels better. There’s coffee all over my sheets and cover, so I st
ri
p the bed, making a pile
of
laundry
for
later.

The rest of my coffee has cooled down enough to drink. I sit on the bed, gulp it down and make a second cup.

So many questions run through my mind. Why did Mark call now? Four days without contact was hard. This tiny little call will have to be enough to pu
l
l me through until tomorrow. Why the secrecy? The quiet?

There’s so much I don’t know about him.

Another
cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal later, I grab a change of clothes and a towel and head to Elaine and B
r
ian’s house to shower. This early in the morning, the only person I ever see is Elaine.

Sure enough, she’s sitting on the back porch with the tabby in her lap and a black cat on her shoulder.

“Carrie! Heard from Mark?”

“Yes. Just this morning. He’s coming home tomorrow.”

Elaine makes a sad face. “I’m so sorry about his father.”

His father? Why is she—
oh
. That’s right. Mark’s cover story.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to lie well. “
I
t’s a shame.” That’s not a lie, right? The truth about his biological father
is
a shame.

“
How are you doing? Has your mail started coming?”
 

I hesitate. How much should I share? I’m burs
t
ing inside with loneliness and with wanting to talk about my dad’s le
t
ter with someone. Anyone.
I
t’s killing me not to. If Amy or Mark were here, I’d spill my guts to them.

Elaine will have to do.

“I got a letter from my dad.”

Elaine jumps with sh
o
ck, making the two cats run away. “What? How?”

“He sent it right before he died.
I
t went to my place in Oklahoma City. My roommate forwarded it. Got it last night.”

“Oh, Carrie,” she says. “How bittersweet.”

“
Y
eah.”

“
Anything helpful? New?” Her gaze cuts away as soon as she asks the question.
 

I reach in my back pocket where I’ve put the letter and hand it to her. She unfolds it, her eyes racing over the page like mine did the first time I saw it.

“They blacked out so much!”

“I know.”

“But it seems like he’s warning you about a man?” Her eyes are wide with worry.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

I wave irritably at the paper. “The prison people made it so I have no idea!” I bark out a sick laugh. “Dad’s final message to me before he died and he can’t even help protect me because someone took a Sharpie and acted like a four-year-old.”

She sighs and gets up, offering me a hug. I take it, inhaling her homey scent. She’s warm and inviting, motherly and loving. I have to fight against the tears that want to come out.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “You’re all alone. Joe never w
a
nted this.”

“I know.”

“W
e
ll,” she says, as if rethinking. “You do have Mark now.”

I wipe an escaped tear off my cheek. “Yes.”

“Except he’s still gone.”

I nod and sniff.

“He’ll be back soon, and maybe he’ll have some ideas about this letter. Have you taken it to Chief Cummings?”

I shake my head.

“Does anyone else know about the letter?”

I shake my head.

She hands it back to me. “Then maybe it’s a good idea to just wait until Mark gets back and show it to him. He’ll know whether it’s worth taking up the chief’s time.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

She nods and gives me another hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

“
P
roud?”

“You’re making all the right decisions, Carrie. You’re back, you’re with Mark again, you have a great job, and you’re helping at the animal shelter while Minnie is out. You’re just as terrified as everyone else about poor Amy’s disappearance, but you’re not falling apart. You’re a strong woman.”

“I could do with a little less strength and a little more sleep,” I say.

She laughs.

I’m not joking.

“
T
hat which does not kill you makes you stronger,” she intones.

I hate that phrase. Hate it so, so much. But I just give her a smile.
I
t’s not her fault I hate that saying.

“Now go take your shower and get to work. You have stuff to do.”

I follow her orders.
I
t’s so much easier than thinking for myself.

* * *

The day at work
goes
by like a blur. No Claudia.
Effie’s out at a doctor appointment all day, so I don’t see her. No sign of Eric, but when I check the professors’ office hours, he doesn’t have any today. Dean landau is in some big budget meeting.
 

Just a quiet, boring day at the office for once.

I
c
ould get used to more days like this.

I head straight for the animal shelter
after work
, knowing Cindy will need more help. If I go back to the trailer I’ll just sit there and wallow in missing Mark. Staying busy is better.

Five minutes after I walk into the shelter, I’m covered in kittens. The “catio”, an outdoor cat patio that some students at the local vocational high school built, is overrun with nine fluff balls of perfection. I’m playing with string and cat toys, sitting on the ground and having a blast, when Cindy interrupts.

“Hey, Carrie. Phone. For you.”

“For
me
?” Who on earth would call me on the animal shelter’s main office phone?

“
I
t’s Ignatio Landau. Says he wants to talk to you about his pit bull adoption.” She shrugs, like she’s apologizing or something.

All sense of fun drains out of me. The kitten
s
scatter, like they can smell the change on my skin.

“Okay. Be right there.” I stand and pry one little kitty’s claws out of the hem of my shirt, then leave the kittens to their fun.

Marny’s on the phone, talking to a vet about calling in some antibiotics for a sick dog. She just points to the other phone.

“Hello?” I say in a professional tone that, I hope, masks my dread. I work for the guy. I spend forty hours a week in the office where he can reach me if needed. Why is he invading my personal time?

“
Ah, Carrie! So good to speak with you. How are you, my dear?” The smoky, accented tone of Dean Landau’s voice makes women peel their pants off and hump lamp posts.
 

It just makes my gut tighten.

“I’m fine, Dean Landau. How are you?”

“I will be so much better after you deliver what I need most to me, Carrie.”

My veins fill with icy slush. “Excuse me?”

“My dog. Wizard. He is cleared now to be delivered to me, and I would very much appreciate having you
bring
him to my home. I have already discussed donating a sizable sum to the shelter in return for this act of kindness on your part.”

Say what? The man wants me to deliver his pit bull to his
home
?

“Excuse me, Dean Landau. Just a moment.” I
p
ut him on hold and quickly find Cindy at a desk in the next rom.

“Landau wants me to deliver the pit bull he adopted,” I say to her, outraged.

She shrugs again. Apologetic. “I know. We never do this, but he’s giving us a pile of money and says it’s important.”