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  “This attempted rape seems to have unearthed some old pain.”

  Margo squinted. “Old pain?”

  “I remember something happening in that same room.” Claire looked away from her sister’s searching eyes. She was ashamed to say it. She stuttered forward, tiptoeing into waters swelling with hidden pain. “I think Daddy may have been inappropriate with me.”

  Margo’s mouth dropped open. “Inappropriate?”

  “I remember being touched. I remember resisting.”

  “What are you saying?” She leaned toward Claire, reaching across the table. “Daddy?”

  Claire shut her eyes, willing back the tears. “Yes. I remember bits and pieces. I remember knowing that something very bad had happened in my bed.”

  Her sister’s voice was soft. Too soft for the harsh word that she spoke. “Rape?”

  She nodded.

  Margo stood and put her arms around her sister. “Claire, that’s horrible. But how do you know?”

  “I remember enough. I’d been out with Tommy Gaines and Shelby and Grant Williams. We stayed out drinking and I got so plastered.” She felt her voice thickening. “I can’t even remember how I got home. But I was so drunk I couldn’t defend myself.

  “I remember being so sick the next morning. I remember the pain I had.” Claire looked up at her sister. “Did he ever — I mean, with you, did he ever — ?”

  “No,” she said. “But I left before things got too bad, remember?” She shook her head.

  “Maybe his problems ran deeper than we ever knew.”

  “Have you talked to Mom?”

  “No,” Claire said softly. “She’s been through too much pain with Wally to bring this up.” She hesitated. “I’d need to be sure.”

  “Claire, Daddy was a violent drunk. But there were certain lines even Daddy wouldn’t cross.”

  “Rape is violence. Rape isn’t about sex.”

  Margo sighed. “Do me a favor. Don’t share this with Della. I think she’d kill him if she thought he’d ever touched you.”

  Claire looked up to see Kyle enter through the back door holding an empty bowl. “Any ice cream left?” He paused, his eyes on the duo. “Did I interrupt?”

  Claire turned her face to the wall.

  “Here,” Margo said. “I put it in the freezer.”

  In the den, Della put her hand to her mouth and slowly backed away from the entrance to the kitchen. I remember that night. I was so worried about Claire. It wasn’t like her to stay out so late. I remember Wally getting up, telling me he was going to check on Claire.

  She retreated back down the hallway and into the bathroom, where she studied her worried expression in the mirror. Wally?

  She took a deep breath, forced a smile, and bounded into the hall. “Anyone for a rematch?”

  An hour later, Claire and John were on their way back to Brighton. John touched her arm. “I want to stop by Pleasant View,” John said. “I want to see Wally.”

  Claire kept her eyes straight ahead. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No, I’m not. I haven’t seen Wally for a few weeks. I just want to say hi.” He sighed. “We talked about this last week.”

  Claire hadn’t had a chance to share her discovered memories with John. She’d wanted to process them with Margo first and see if she’d had any similar experiences. “I don’t really feel like seeing my father.”

  “You stay in the car then. Just let me go in.”

  She stayed quiet.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She recounted her counseling session with Joanne Phillips and the recovery of her memories.

  John sighed. “Man oh man oh man.”

  “Is that all you can say?”

  “I’m sorry, Claire.” He let the apology hang without further comment. They drove along in silence for a minute until he spoke again.

  “If something really happened between you and Wally, it was a long time ago, buried beneath years. You visited last week. Nothing is really different about today.”

  “Everything is different about today.” She hesitated. “Today I have feelings . . . memories about my father that I can’t ignore.”

  He drummed his fingers on his knee and looked out the window. Claire could see the hurt on his face. But how could he be so insensitive to her feelings?

  “Look,” she said, “I wish I could make it all go away. I wish I’d never been attacked. I wish I didn’t have hurt locked away that has come creeping out to mess up today.” She pressed her right hand onto her upper lip.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “Don’t discount the way God has worked things out between you in the last six months. Do you remember how significant it felt to finally have him say, ‘I love you’?”

  She drove on, fighting an internal battle. He was right. She had seen improvement and healing in her relationship with Wally since she’d uncovered the mystery of the Stoney Creek curse. And she liked the fact that John had such a great relationship with Wally. She loved John for relating to him, even in his present condition, as if he was just a normal guy. She felt guilty for wanting to stay away, but she couldn’t deny the fresh wound that had opened in her soul.

  When she got to the entrance to the lane leading up to Pleasant View Home, she yielded to her desire to please John. She turned and headed up the hill.

  She glanced at John. Surprise registered on his face. “You don’t have to go in.”

  She parked. “I’m going with you.” Maybe looking at him will help jog my memory. She took a deep breath. Okay. I can give myself permission to remember. I’m safe now. The pain was a long time ago.

  They stayed for twenty minutes, with John chatting on about the boredom of rehab and the army-sergeant therapist he had to deal with in the hospital. Claire looked on as John assisted Wally with some thickened lemonade.

  She tried to remember. Daddy, did you . . . ? Could you . . .?

  How could you?

  Wally stayed expressionless, seemingly trapped behind a dull mask some cruel playwright made him wear in a play called Huntington’s. He was quiet for John’s entire one-sided conversation.

  As they said good-bye, he spoke the same words Claire had last heard him speak. His voice was weak and the words were punctuated in a rhythm matched by the bumping of his limbs against the padded rails of his bed. “I want to die.”

  This time, Claire’s first thought troubled her more than her father’s deadpanned statement.

  You deserve it.

  That night, Margo tucked the girls in bed and tapped on the back of a thick book that hid her husband’s face. “Night, honey.”

  He lowered the spy novel. “Are you going to tell me what was going on between you and Claire?”

  She sighed. “Claire’s been seeing a counselor, trying to work through some of the issues that have come up as a result of her recent assault.”

  Kyle raised his eyebrows. “Issues.”

  “Claire thinks Wally abused her as a young woman.”

  “And that’s news? How many times did he swing at you when he was drunk?”

  “I don’t mean in that way. I mean sexually.”

  “Wally? That sounds like rubbish to me.”

  Margo sat on the edge of the bed. “That was my first thought. But Claire has some pretty strong memories of being touched in her own bed.” Margo shook her head. “She remembered well enough to tell me the exact day.”

  Kyle stared straight ahead. “I’m listening.”

  “She says she’d been out with Tommy Gaines and Grant and Shelby Williams. They got her pretty drunk. She thinks Daddy came to her when she was back home in her bed and unable to defend herself.”

  He lowered his head onto his hand and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, man.”

  “Kyle, what should she do?”

  “Do?” He set aside the novel. “Nothing. She should stop digging up memories that are long buried. What good can it bring to accuse Wally and ups
et your mother?”

  Margo nodded. “I told her not to tell Mom. I don’t think their relationship could stand a blow like this. They’ve come so far in reconciling in recent months.”

  Her husband yawned. “What’d she say?”

  “I think she’ll keep it quiet. But knowing Claire, that doesn’t mean she won’t need to get to the bottom of it before she moves on.”

  “Will she take your advice? Tell her that memories that drift back through the haze of alcohol aren’t reliable.” He stood up and walked to the bathroom, muttering as he left, “Innocent people could get hurt.”

  Chapter Eight

  After a weekend of wading through unnerving memories, Claire welcomed Monday morning’s business to occupy her attention. She toiled through the load that included three sports physicals on Ashby High football player wannabes, an asthma follow-up, two blood pressure medication adjustments, and a biopsy of a suspicious skin lesion on the bald spot of a golfer.

  At noon, she retrieved a can of chocolate Slimfast from the fridge and sat at her desk to catch up on dictation.

  “Here,” Lucy said, placing a form on the desk. “The guy from the funeral home dropped off another death certificate.”

  Claire sighed. She was responsible to certify the official causes of death for her patients.

  “Do you need the patient record?”

  Claire read the name on the certificate. “Richard Childress.” She shook her head. “No, I remember Mr. Childress. I won’t need the record.”

  Her stomach knotted as she read the date on the certificate. Saturday. The day after I wrote a prescription for morphine.

  She looked at the lines highlighted for her to complete. Immediate cause of death. Other factors contributing to death.

  What do I write? Sarcasm tempted her. Assisted suicide from narcotic overdose? She shook her head. No. I don’t know that. If they took the morphine as instructed, there would be no reason to think the morphine contributed to his death.

  She propped up her head with her hand. So why do I wonder?

  She penned in the diagnosis. Metastatic colon cancer.

  I wonder if a blood test could reveal a narcotic overdose? Should I call the funeral home and see if a sample can be taken?

  Should I call Mrs. Childress and ask?

  What’s the point? Do I really want to know?

  Richard Childress was going to die anyway.

  So why do I feel guilty?

  Claire chided her sensitive conscience.

  Would it really have been so bad to shorten his suffering by a lethal injection?

  On Monday afternoon, Jimmy Jenkins sat in the driver’s seat in his new Winnebago motor home and cried. Last week the camper on wheels had been full of retirement dreams, but now he felt like leaving it on the curb with a sign like he’d left on his golf clubs.

  On Tuesday, he stayed in his pajamas until supper, something Miriam would never approve of. Wednesday, he passed her walk-in closet and rested his hand on the door. Thursday, he opened the door and peered in. Friday, he entered her sanctuary just long enough to bury his nose in her favorite blue dress. It still carried her scent. After a few minutes, he rubbed a spot near the collar, wet with his tears, and retreated from her closet with the dress, which he gently placed in his own closet, hanging it closely against his gray suit, the one Miriam liked. She said it brought out the gray in his hair and made him look dignified.

  On Sunday, he visited Community Chapel. He supposed death was supposed to make you think about eternity, but the truth was, he felt so guilty for hiding a secret from Miriam for so many years that he thought he’d give church a go again to see if anything good would stick. Kind of like walking through a smoky bar, he thought. Maybe the fragrance of the place will rub off on me.

  From the back, he strained his head to look for Della, but to no avail. Maybe she had gone to Brighton to see her future in-laws.

  The next week he took the Winnebago back to the dealer who accepted it back, given Jimmy’s sad circumstances. With the refund check in his pocket, he took the bus to Brighton, walked three blocks to the Harley Davidson dealer, and bought a Fat Boy motorcycle along with a matching shiny black helmet. He took it right from the showroom floor, waiting an hour for them to add the leather saddlebags that had classic leather strings hanging like a little waterfall around the fringe.

  Riding back to Stoney Creek with the wind in his face and the throaty growl of the engine behind, Jimmy thought about the warnings he’d given his young patients over the years. He’d called them donor-cycle riders, because they so often ended up donating their organs after a brain-deadening crash. Now, with a growing sense of freedom, he chuckled at his new image. Sails to the wind! He twisted the throttle and held on as the bike responded, pulling forward against his hands. He tightened his grip. He should have done this years ago. Of course, then Miriam would have stroked sooner.

  He whispered an apology to his wife and conquered the twisted highway over North Mountain toward Fisher’s Retreat. Red, orange, and yellow leaves passed in a dizzying blur of fall color. At noon, he stopped at the café to order greasy french fries. Then he drove by Della’s three times, but didn’t stop because the driveway appeared empty.

  On the third pass, he contemplated turning in, but told himself it would be better to get a leather jacket first, one like he’d seen Steve McQueen wear in an old motorcycle movie.

  That’s a plan. Just wait until Della sees me now.

  Joanne sat in a cushioned chair across from Claire and adjusted the picture of John Cerelli toward her. It was just a slight gesture, a bump of the hand, an accidental knock of the photograph with the edge of her notepad. But Claire noticed that Joanne’s eyes went to the photo again and lingered. It was just a second or two, but enough to see the flicker of enjoyment that moment brought.

  “How are you doing, Claire? Are you busy with wedding plans? I can’t imagine the stress.”

  Claire’s eyes had followed Joanne’s to the photograph. “Oh, yes.” She looked back at her counselor, who sat on the edge of her chair. “It is a bit hectic.”

  Joanne slid back and crossed her long, slender legs. Her skirt edged up. Her thighs were fit, without a hint of age-related dimpling. Claire was sure she must spend hours in the gym. Joanne picked up her notebook. “So how goes the memory trail?”

  “Okay, I guess.” She explained how she’d laid on her bed and remembered sleeping in her clothes with the lights on. “When John slept over the other week — ”

  “John slept over? I thought we’d talked about limiting physical contact for a while.”

  Claire looked up. You interrupted me. “I was saying that he slept over, but not in my bed. John sleeps on the couch when he stays in Stoney Creek.”

  Joanne nodded. “Good girl.”

  “Anyway, while I was lying on my bed, I heard the floor squeak as he passed my room. I remembered lying awake on my bed, years ago . . . being afraid, listening to noises in the hall.”

  “Listening for the creaking floor?” She paused. “Listening for someone walking to your room? Was it your father?”

  Claire grimaced. “It might have been. I remember turning off the lamp and staring at the sliver of light coming from under my door. I watched for shadows of feet.”

  “Do you remember being attacked?”

  “I have memories of being held down in my bed. But that’s what Tyler did to me, when he tried — ” She halted. “You know.”

  Joanne nodded. Her face was kind, like she knew how hard it was for Claire to even say the word.

  “Anyway, the memories of that attack are so vivid to me. So when I remember that, I don’t know if I’m mixing it with recall from another attack or not.”

  Joanne wrote something down on her yellow notepad. They talked again about safety issues, about how it was okay if Claire felt safe to have a gun around, how normal it was to feel anger toward her father, and how she may even want to facilitate a confrontation at some point. “It�
��s good to get everything out. It’s painful, but it can do a lot for closing this chapter in your life.”

  Claire shook her head. “You don’t understand. My father is very ill. Huntington’s disease debilitates him. He doesn’t even respond to me half the time. I’m not sure if it’s a true decline in his intellect or just personality changes. Besides, if he abused me, I’m sure he was drunk.”

  “Hmmm. There may be some alternatives.”

  “Alternatives?”

  “Mock confrontations. Let me give it some thought. It’s a technique I’ve used before when my patients’ fathers are already deceased.”

  Claire wrinkled her nose. It didn’t sound too pleasant. She took a deep breath. “Sometimes I wonder if any of this is real. What if none of this ever happened?”

  “You told me yourself what you experienced the following morning.” Joanne leaned forward. “And fear doesn’t come out of nowhere. Girls don’t normally lie awake at night quivering at the sound of the floor.”

  It sounded reasonable. Claire looked at her watch. She wished the sessions were all behind her.

  “Claire, what you’ve told me is very significant. Girls who were abused by their fathers commonly sleep fully clothed.”

  “With the light on?”

  Joanne nodded.

  And Claire began to cry.

  That evening, Nancy Childress sat in her living room sorting Richard’s belongings with her daughter, Ami. She folded a pair of pants and placed it in a box bound for the Salvation Army. “You haven’t said much about this new boyfriend of yours.”

  Ami shrugged. “He e-mails me every day.”

  Nancy smiled. “Be careful, honey. Sometimes work relationships can be a minefield.”

  “Not with John. He’s so sweet.”

  Ami carried a box into the bathroom. Nancy listened as she called out, “Should I put his electric razor in the donation box?”

  “Sure.”

  A minute later Ami came into the front room holding a small box and a syringe. “Mom, what are you doing with this?”

  “It’s drugs from Dr. McCall’s office. Something to keep Richard comfortable before he died.”