Sister Dear (8 page)

As Caroline stepped into the hallway and waited for a supervising employee to swing by and pick her up, she watched as a parade of elderly ladies and a few men hobbled to the dining room. A rail, for gripping and steadying, lined the walls. It was all in slow motion, as if someone had taken the minutes and stretched them like rubber bands, taut and thin. Because there was nowhere to go. No one to see.

When a tiny, wizened woman seemed to stumble and sway, Caroline rushed forward, offering a hand to help. She grasped the resident's frail frame, guiding her to a seat at one of the tables.

“Thank you, dear.” The woman smiled up at Caroline with watery blue eyes as she drew a white cloth napkin across her lap.

“Of course.” Caroline flushed with pleasure. She liked helping.
And the people here didn't care at all what brand of shoes she wore or the last names of her best friends. They probably didn't know—or couldn't remember—about her mother.

Maybe,
for once
, she could simply be.

After pushing in another resident's chair, she spent the next hour shadowing one of the more experienced aides, waiting and listening patiently until she was given a task or two to complete on her own.

Finally, she had her chance.

“Take this plate to room 204, sugar?” the aide asked, handing over a warm, covered dish on a plastic tray. “Just warning you, this one won't leave her room. Won't come into the hallway. Can't do much with her.” The aide shook her head, black curls bouncing against each other. “But we have to try.”

Caroline straightened and smiled, balancing the dish and platter. “Of course.”

She repeated the room number to herself as she walked out of the dining room into the hallway. Caroline hurried her steps, glancing at the tiny numbers at the corner of each doorway. “204, 204,” she reminded herself.

The door was opened, but she knocked twice anyway. A boy, not much older than she was, swiveled his head at the sound. His eyes, warm and brown as a thoroughbred's coat, were bright and inquisitive. He wore scrubs the color of ripe apples in the fall, setting off his tanned skin and squared jaw.

“Um, I'm . . .” Caroline's voice drifted off. Stay or go? Where was she needed?

“We're almost finished,” he said with a grin and turned back to his patient, expertly manipulating her arm, stretching and bending the joints. “Hey, I'm Russell. I volunteer in PT.” His smile was huge, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “Physical Therapy,” he
added quickly. A lock of dark hair fell over his eye as he gestured for Caroline to set down the tray.

“Hey,” Caroline said, a slight tickle creeping up her neck.

When she put down the dinner tray, she noticed that the woman was staring at her and smiling. Like she recognized her. But that wasn't possible. Caroline had never seen her before.

“Hello, dear!”

In response, Caroline offered a small wave. “Hi.”

“Oh goodness, I couldn't tell at first,” the woman squinted. “My eyes seem to play tricks on me these days. But it is you.” She waved at Caroline to come closer. “Now, come over here so that I can see you.” In her navy-blue dress, pearl earrings, and sensible shoes, she could have been one of the ladies from church who drove a big Cadillac.
What is she doing here?

“It's been such a long time,” the lady continued, smiling as if they were friends, reunited after years apart. “How are you, dear?”

Caroline gulped and shrank away. This was too weird.

Russell raised an eyebrow at the resident and moved his body between Caroline and the woman. “I'll have your friend come back and visit later,” Russell said to the woman and motioned for Caroline to leave the room. “There are some other folks waiting on their supper.”

Grateful, Caroline backed out the door, one foot behind the other. “Let's finish up here. Just a few more minutes.” Russell's voice carried into the hallway.

Caroline leaned her head against the nubby plastic wallpaper, listening. He was so very patient. The woman began mumbling, strings of words Caroline couldn't quite put together.

“Patients . . . Surgery, three o'clock. Pitocin drip . . . Stat.”

Knuckles resting on her lips, she couldn't resist taking another peek. Between bursts of speech, Russell patiently answered or
commented. She'd never seen a person take as much time and care with another human being.

When he finished, Russell came out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. “You did fine,” he told Caroline. “She's a tough one, stubborn to the core.”

Caroline hesitated, trying to find the right words. She didn't want to seem scared, or uncaring. “What's wrong . . . I mean, what happened to her?”

“Head trauma ten years ago. She was in an accident.” He sighed. “Her memory—the short-term part—is really piecey. She has some good days and some bad. This wasn't one of the better ones.”

“She thinks she knows me,” Caroline said, pressing a hand to her heart. The muscles below her fingers seemed to ache with the woman's loss of memory. “Why? How could she?”

Russell leaned against the wall. “Well, she could call me George Washington, for all I care.” He gave Caroline a kind smile. “You can't be afraid of her. Or any of the patients here. If anything, they're afraid of you. Imagine waking up every day and not being able to remember who you are. How terrified you'd be.”

Caroline looked at her shoes, absorbing the advice. “It would be okay with me.”

Russell blinked his eyes and tilted his head.

“No kidding. You'd trade what you've got to be in this place?” He rubbed his stubbled jaw with one hand. “You've got to have a whole lot of baggage you're carrying around with you for . . . what? All of fifteen years old?” Russell smiled.

“Almost sixteen,” Caroline lied, her face reddening. Why had she said that? It was months until her next birthday.

“I'm seventeen and a senior at Brunswick.” He peered at her closely. “You go to school there?”

“Mansfield Academy,” she murmured, dropping her eyes to her
shoes, then letting them travel back up to his face. He was still looking right at her.

“Ah, the elite school.” He winked. “Now I'm sure I've got more skeletons in the closet.” Russell winked again and challenged. He tapped his chin. “Let's wager on some ice cream in the cafeteria. Loser pays.”

“I'll win,” Caroline responded under her breath. “I'm a freak.”

Russell wrinkled his forehead and extended a hand. “You're pretty sure of yourself.” They shook on it. His grip was warm and reassuring.

No wonder the residents liked him. There was something there, behind the nice face and features, that made her want to open up and confess everything.

Caroline looked up at him. When Russell squeezed and let go, she felt a jolt down to her toes. After a moment, she regained her balance and stepped back. “Um, I have to check in with the nurses. It's my first day, besides orientation. I'm here until seven tonight.”

“Okay, so that's about thirty minutes.” Russell checked his watch. “I have one more person to check on, and then I'm finished. That should work out about right. You have time for that ice cream?”

“Okay.” Caroline ducked her head, unable to look at him square in the face. She had all of the time in the world, but she wasn't certain she wanted to spend it talking about her screwed-up family. She'd said too much already. She needed to be paying attention to the residents, making sure she was doing her job.

“Give me your number?”

Caroline stopped. “Excuse me?”

“So I can call you and tell you where I'm sitting,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“You won't remember it.”

“Try me.” Russell smiled broadly.

Flattered, and against her better judgment, Caroline rattled off seven numbers. Fast. And blushed.

“Nice. Meet you in the cafeteria then?” He jabbed his thumb at the elevator. “I have to run. A lovely ninety-year-old in room 307 is waiting for me.”

Caroline nodded and let out the breath she'd been holding, relieved Russell was heading to another floor. It would give her time to decide what to do. Should she really meet him later?

She blinked her eyes and turned one shoulder. One of the aides had drifted back to the nurses' station, holding a chart in one hand. Caroline headed in her direction.

“Hi,” Caroline said softly. “Is there anything else you need? Anything I can do? I'm here another half hour.”

The aide looked up and pursed her lips. “Oh, you go on home, sugar. Thanks for your help. Just sign out on that sheet for me, all right?”

Swallowing back a pang of regret, Caroline picked up the ballpoint pen and poised it over the volunteer sheet. She'd come here to hide, but they were already telling her to head home. Where was left? Where would she go? Caroline scribbled her name, pressing so hard the tip ripped the page. She took off her badge, hung it on the wall. “Good night,” she murmured.

“Have a good evening,” the aide said with a smile, opening a drawer and searching.

“Thank you.” Caroline turned and walked toward the exit, hugging her arms around her rib cage. She could go to the cafeteria and wait. But then, there would be questions. She pressed a hand to her chest. What if he found out about her mother?

She heard the elevator doors chime and begin to open. She moved even faster, hoping it wasn't Russell, done early. Six more
steps. Toward the door, toward outside, where no one would look at her or ask questions, or pretend to care.

Two more steps. The doors opened, and the space was full of carts and trays and people. No room for another body. Even if she squeezed.

“I think I'll take the stairs,” she called back to the nurses' station.

“Okay,” the woman replied. “I'll buzz you out.”

“Thank you.”

Moments after Caroline reached the end of the hallway, the sensor flashed red and the lock clicked open. The door swung into a wide, yawning stairwell. It was dingy and gray and smelled of burnt rubber.

At the bottom, below the Exit sign, she pushed hard on the door's metal bar. Outside, despite the afternoon rainstorm, early evening had turned humid, almost suffocating. Steam rose from the pavement under barely glowing streetlights as the sky turned brilliant shades of poppy red and gold.

Barely noticing any of it, Caroline drew a ragged breath and began to run. After weaving through the parking lot and dodging cars, she pushed her body harder, forcing her legs to move faster.

But every ounce of effort she expended seemed wasted. She might as well be running in quicksand. The air, thick and sticky, clung to her like guilt.

TEN

ALLIE

2016

Allie's parole officer, Gladys Williams, was a serene-faced, longlimbed woman with skin the color of rich mocha. She wore a trim, bright red suit, the color setting off her brown doe eyes and glossy black hair. Her voice, low and musical, reminded Allie of jazz vocalists in New Orleans.

Her office wasn't far, but Allie had asked to borrow her mother's car to make the drive. The first meeting consisted mostly of a lecture, which Allie supposed wasn't at all out of the ordinary.

“Never had a parolee sent back,” Gladys explained, leaning back in her chair and studying her with a grim expression. “Don't plan on you being the first.” She ran through potential offenses—obvious ones like missing parole meetings or phone check-ins, avoiding known offenders, and getting arrested again.

“I understand,” Allie replied. She wasn't the same person as she'd been ten years ago. Nine years earlier, she'd been vulnerable, naïve, and full of grief. Quick to anger. Fast to defend herself. There was so much she didn't know and had to learn. There were no how-to manuals for prison life. No tips that taught you how to survive.

In the end, it all came down to a will to live. Wanting freedom more than wanting to give up. Wanting justice, and a real life with Caroline.

“Don't go looking for trouble,” Gladys warned. She stared at Allie for a moment, not allowing Allie's gaze to fall away. “People aren't going to always be accepting about you moving back to Brunswick. There might be a tendency for you to want to set people straight. Even do a little investigative work of your own.”

Clearly, Gladys was an intelligent woman, fully aware of small-town politics. Under duress, off the record, she might even agree that some cases were far from fair, that evidence was overlooked or buried. Her job, though, wasn't to defend Allie's guilt or innocence. It wasn't to make things right or hold anyone's hand. It was to keep her parolees safe.

As Gladys continued to talk, Allie suppressed the urge to defend herself, to explain that—if given time—she was sure she could connect Sheriff Gaines to the coach's death. The two men, who'd worked together to create a championship football team, must have come to blows over something huge, Allie thought. With the worst of timing, she'd stumbled into a storm like no other, getting sucked into the vortex, everything she'd ever known to be true ripped from her grasp.

“Are we clear?” Gladys finally asked. “No drama. No gossip. No editorials in the paper. And no talking to anyone about the coach, his football team, or how much you still believe those players were being abused or coerced into bulking up with steroids.”

“I understand.” Allie dropped her chin; her eyes flooded with tears. She'd been naïve and reckless, so bent on exposing the truth, only to find out that no one wanted to hear about it. Allie wiped at her cheeks. If she even breathed a word of her suspicions, Gladys would likely tell Allie—ever so politely—that she
was due for an IV full of psychiatric medicine to flush the idea out of her system.

Gladys softened her voice. “I know this is hard. But I want you to have a real chance at a new life. A second chance.” She paused. “So let's start by looking for a job. Something that will keep you busy, out of the public eye if possible. Let things settle down.”