The Returning (4 page)

Andrea wiped her palms against her apron again. “Well, Rebekah,” she said. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“Hello.”

The word was as lifeless as tumbleweed. John felt it roll through him, snagging his heart on the way.

He fumbled for something to say. In his nervousness, he found himself echoing Andrea’s comment to him earlier. “You’ve grown so much since I saw you last summer, I hardly recognize you.”

John watched the blue eyes narrow. “Yeah?” she said. “Well, it’s hard to keep track of things when you’re not around, isn’t it?”

“Rebekah!”

“It’s all right, Andrea. I—”

Mumbling something John couldn’t hear, Rebekah pushed past her mother. Ducking into her bedroom off the kitchen, she shut the door heavily.

John and Andrea avoided each other’s gaze. At length John said, “Well, that didn’t go very well, did it?”

“You’ll have to give her time, John.”

He nodded, drew in a deep breath.

Andrea went on, “It hasn’t been easy for her these past few years, growing up without her father around.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“We’ll have to be patient. But she’ll come around.”

He took a step backward, stopped again. “I’ve missed so much.” He looked up at his wife. “I’ve missed too much. Maybe there’s no way to come back now—”

“No,” she said quickly. “No. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

He wanted to believe her. Following her into the kitchen, he started to say, “Do you think Billy—”

But she interrupted him again. “He should be here in just a few minutes. Owen was going to have Maggie bring him home when she got off her shift.”

That wasn’t what he was going to ask. He was going to ask her if Billy might be glad to see him. Now he decided to let it drop.

Andrea opened the oven door and peeked inside, releasing the aroma of pork roasting. Andrea had always been a good cook. John suddenly realized how hungry he was, how his stomach felt like a huge empty valley inside of him.

She shut the door and, turning swiftly, almost bumped into John. He started and backed up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be in the way.”

“You’re not in the way,” she assured him. “I’m just not used to . . .”

She didn’t finish, didn’t seem to know what else to say. John looked around the kitchen, searching for a way to end the awkward moment. “Here,” he said, “can I carry this trash out for you?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She looked relieved. “You know where the cans are.”

“Of course.” He pulled the plastic bag out of the wastebasket, tied the top in a knot, and carried it outside. The garbage cans had always been around the back of the cottage so they couldn’t be seen from the lake.

When he found them, he lifted the lid of one of the cans and dropped the bag inside. As he settled the lid back on, he heard a car slow down and pull over to the side of the narrow road that skirted the lake. He recognized neither the car nor the woman who drove it, but when the passenger-side door opened and a young man got out, John knew Billy was home. He would have known his son anywhere—the small head sprouting like a stunted bud from a thick neck, the flat round face, wide nose, lipless mouth, the slanted eyes.

For just a moment the boy didn’t move, but then, even from a distance, John could see the small eyes widen, the mouth draw back in a silent laugh, the chinless jaw point skyward. Then Billy moved around the car, and dropping his backpack on the gravel drive, he ran on short but powerful legs toward his father.

John stood breathless in his son’s embrace while Billy cried out happily, “Dad! It’s Daddy. Daddy’s home!”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Thank God for Billy
, Andrea thought as she watched her son through the kitchen window. In throwing his arms around his father, he had done what neither of the others had done, maybe what neither of them
could
do—at least not yet. She kept her eyes on Billy and John as they moved toward the walkway together. Then Billy burst into the kitchen, grinning widely, sputtering as he announced, “Look, Mom! Dad’s home!”

Andrea smiled lovingly at her son. “I know, Billy. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Dad’s home!” he said again, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Yes.”

“Home to stay!”

“Yes, Billy. He’s home to stay.”

“Does Phoebe know? Where is she?”

“Last we saw, she was heading for her hiding space under the dock.”

“Again? What for?”

Andrea looked at John.

“I’m afraid she’s hiding from me, Billy,” he said.

“From you?” Billy laughed. “Why would she hide from you?”

“Well, I guess she’s a little shy. Do you think you could coax her out?”

“Sure, Dad! Come with me.” Billy smiled confidently, leading the way outside with a wave of his arm.

Andrea followed but stopped on the porch as her husband and son moved down to the edge of the bank. At the top of the steps leading down to the dock, Billy cupped his mouth with his hands and hollered, “Phoebe Sheldon, this is your brother Billy. Come up here! Come up here now! Say hi to Dad!”

He dropped his hands and waited. He seemed certain he would get the response he wanted. Soon the blond head bobbed slowly up the steps. Once she reached the top, Phoebe leaped toward her brother, her small arms circling his waist so that her hands met in the small of his back.

Billy hugged her tightly, then straightened up and pointed at their father. “Look, Phoebe, look. It’s Daddy. Daddy’s home. You got to say hi, okay? Or you’ll make him feel bad.”

Andrea held her breath as John bent down on one knee, down to the child’s level. He held out an open hand. “Hello, Phoebe,” he said tenderly. “I’m very happy to meet you.”

He waited. Andrea waited. Phoebe looked up at her brother’s face.

With an exaggerated sigh, Billy urged, “What are you waiting for, Phoeb? A gold-graved invitation?”

Andrea laughed quietly to herself. How many times had Billy heard her chide the children with that line:
Go on, do as I say! What are you waiting for, a golden-engraved invitation?

Slowly Phoebe unlocked her hands and let go of Billy. She turned and looked at her father, then touched the palm of his hand briefly, the way a moth alights on a lily and flutters off. She might have said something, but Andrea couldn’t hear.

Thank God for Billy
, Andrea thought again. All hope was not lost. Though heaven knew that even hope had its limits.

Leaving the three of them to get acquainted, Andrea made her way to the room off the kitchen, Rebekah’s room. The door was closed. Handwritten on a piece of notebook paper and newly taped to the door was the warning: No Adults Allowed.

Andrea knocked.

“Go away.”

“Rebekah, it’s Mom.”

“I said, go away. Can’t you read the sign?”

“Beka, please.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk with you—just for a minute.”

The door flew open and Rebekah stood there, her face a mask of defiance.

“Beka—”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Be nice to Dad.”

“Well, yes—”

“I hate him.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, it’s true.”

For a moment Andrea didn’t know how to respond. She studied her daughter’s angry face. “There was a time,” she said slowly, “when you didn’t want anything more than just to sit on your father’s lap—”

“Don’t go sentimental on me, Mom. I was a kid. Well, I’m not a kid anymore.”

No. No, she wasn’t. She was a young lady now, and on the whole, Andrea was pleased with how her daughter was turning out. Rebekah was generally pleasant at home, willing to help out around the house without too much complaint. She was fairly responsible, did well at school, and rarely got into any real trouble. But she had a stubborn streak that lately was showing up as defiance toward all authority. Andrea blamed it on teenage angst and expected her daughter to outgrow it eventually. In the meantime, it had to be tamed.

“Okay, listen, Rebekah, your father’s home whether you like it or not—”

“I don’t like it.”

“And we have a chance to make this family work. I won’t have you ruining it for all of us.”

For one brief moment Andrea thought Rebekah might back down. A certain calm crept over her face, as though she were suddenly remembering the father of years ago. But when she spoke, Andrea’s hope faded.

“Everything was fine without him, Mom. Why did he have to come home?”

“Because this is where he belongs, Beka. Where else could he go?”

Rebekah’s gaze turned cold then, like granite in winter. She pursed her lips, and her eyes froze over with angry unshed tears.

“I know it’s been hard on you, honey . . .” Andrea began, but before she could finish, the bedroom door slammed, and the latch was snapped shut on the other side.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Clutching a box of wooden matches
, Rebekah ran one bulbous head along the lighting strip. The end of the match sizzled and flared, then settled into a tiny flame. A wisp of gray smoke, smelling of sulfur, drifted upward and disappeared.

She held the flame to the wick of the largest lavender candle on her nightstand. Lavender was the fragrance for peace. Rebekah had read that in one of the books Lena gave her. She now had a drawer full of lavender candles in the nightstand, as well as three candles of varying sizes in chipped stoneware saucers next to the digital clock.

Her mother didn’t like her lighting candles indoors, but she didn’t forbid it either. She simply told her to be careful. She trusted Rebekah. So far. Which was how Rebekah wanted it, because as long as her mother trusted her, she could do whatever she wanted to do and maybe even get away with it.

Of course, that all might change now. Now that there was another grown-up in the house. Another parent, supposedly.

Once the candle was lighted, Rebekah shook out the match with a flick of her wrist. She added the blackened stick to the pile in the saucer. Leaning toward the flame, she inhaled deeply. Lavender was a pretty scent, and upset as she was, maybe if she let her room fill up with it, the lavender would kick in and help calm her down.

After all, she needed something, now that
he
was back.

At the thought of him she flung herself down on the bed and beat the pillow with her fist. She had missed her father at first. She’d cried a lot, asked when he’d be coming home. Then, as month melted into month, she’d gotten used to his being gone. His absence became the norm. Some days she didn’t even think about him. When other kids asked where her father was, she made up stories to fill in the blank. Finally she grew happy with the way things were. She had friends. She had a boyfriend. She was sixteen years old, and she was having fun. Now
he
had to come back and change everything.

“
Be nice to your father, Rebekah
.”

Oh sure, and what had he done for her? He’d betrayed her, for starters. Or maybe he’d just been a phony all along, because the father she’d loved wouldn’t have done what he did. She’d practically idolized him, thought he was a hero who could do no wrong. Then, in one night, his true colors came out, and the next thing she knew, he was locked up in prison. As far as she was concerned,
two
men had died in that accident, not just one. The man she’d known as her father was as good as dead. In fact, it’d be better for all of them if he really were—

You don’t mean that
.

Yeah, I do. I mean it
.

How can you wish Dad was dead?

“I can’t help it,” she said aloud. “I—” She froze for several seconds and then hit the pillow with her fist again when she realized she was arguing with herself. Her friends would call her crazy. One head with two people inside who couldn’t even get along with each other.

She wished she’d been born into a regular family, one where everyone was just a normal person. But right from the start something was wrong, because she went straight from the hospital into a house where there was already an older brother no one would call normal. From the time she was conscious, she’d had to deal with the embarrassment of that—the stares in public, the whispers, the muffled laughter, and later at school, the constant teasing by the other kids. Then, her father! Her father was a prisoner convicted of manslaughter. How many of her friends could claim that distinction? She didn’t know anyone else whose father had spent time in the slammer.

She squeezed her eyes tight against the thought. Not that all her friends would care about where her dad had been. Her best friend, Lena, who already knew, didn’t care at all. Lena seemed to think families were better off without men around to mess things up. Her own dad had left years ago when the circus came through town and he discovered his high school sweetheart working as a member of the prop crew. When the circus pulled out, so did Mr. Barrett. What a lowlife. Lena’s mom had married again after that, then divorced and married again. And divorced again. Now it was just Lena and her mom, which was how Lena liked it. She didn’t want her mother dating anyone. She said it always ended up bad for her mom.