Sirens wailed anew. Skylar hadn’t realized the relative quiet until now. Ambulances would be transporting the injured. A good sign. The dead didn’t need sirens, right?
Would one wait for Jenna? Danny didn’t have a car there. Skylar had Claire’s car. Should she go get it?
Skylar sank to her knees. Too many questions swirled in her head, making it too heavy to hold upright. She rested her forehead against the back side of the altar.
“Oh, God. Take care of her. Take care of them all.”
Now she was talking out loud to Him?
Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes.
She was in a sacred space. At least that was what the Sunday school teachers had told her long ago. The bema was for holy things, they said, for the bread and wine and water. It was for those who taught from the Word. It was where Christ lingered, where His broken body lay and His blood poured out. An atonement . . .
Was it true? Could it be true? How could it be true? She was look ing at polished wood and red carpet placed by human hands at one end of a room in a building.
Exhaustion coursed through her. She was so tired of fighting, so tired of the struggle. But if she let go, if she put down her guard . . . then what?
Lost in her thoughts, she felt a prickly sensation on the back of her neck. It grew stronger, increasing to a gentle but urgent pressure, nudging her downward.
Unable to resist, Skylar moved with it, folding, collapsing, bowing low, and still lower, until her face lay against the carpet.
And she wept.
E
ventually Skylar’s tears stopped. She rose unsteadily to her feet behind the altar and stretched the cramps from her legs. Wiping her sleeve across her eyes, she glanced across the church. A few people still straggled at the main entrance. Police and firefighters inspected the holes in the wall.
She slipped quietly through a side door and down a hall that led to the exterior door she and Danny had used.
Outside she walked around the church. Order appeared to have been restored. Police guarded the front entrance. Firefighters were climbing into trucks. She wished she could find Rosie. She even almost wished she had a cell phone.
There was no question in her mind but that the thing to do was to find Jenna and be with the Beaumonts.
Skylar went to the nearest emergency person, a female cop, and asked her where the injured had been taken. The woman told her the name of a hospital and patiently gave her directions on how to get there as well as to the parking garage.
Huddles of people grouped here and there along the blocks she walked. There was the eerie feel of disaster all over the place, that weird sense of camaraderie that enveloped strangers after a tragedy struck.
Skylar hurried past them. Whatever had happened behind the altar was weird enough for her to handle. She wasn’t up for listening to wild rumors that must be flying between those hanging around.
“Hey, Annie Wells!”
She slowed and turned toward the voice.
Why did she slow? Why did she turn?
It was him. Fin Harrod. Six feet between them.
She felt her eyes bulge, her lips part, her throat close up, her heart boom. At least her sunglasses hid the most obvious reaction.
She turned back around and picked up her pace, like someone who’d figured out the “hey” wasn’t intended for her.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he said.
She looked over her shoulder and shook her head. “Sorry,” she said, lilting a British twist to the word.
He laughed.
He knew.
And he knew that she knew he knew.
Keeping up the charade, she continued down the sidewalk, dipping slightly to add a swing to her stride. Before she reached the corner, she checked both ways for traffic. The light was against her, but the street was clear. She went straight across it, not turning where the policewoman said she should.
Resisting the urge to see if he followed, she walked another block, grateful for more clumps of people to wind through. At the next corner she turned right. There was a chain coffee store ahead. Centered between office buildings, it was the only place she might conceivably enter.
She’d be stuck.
She continued, almost jogging now. Holding firmly to the mental map she’d drawn of how to find the garage that held Claire’s car, she began a circuitous route. She went forwards, sideways, and back again. After a time she started checking over her shoulder every so often. No one followed.
Skylar ran and ran and ran.
T
he ER doctor said she had a slight concussion.
Jenna huffed in his face leaning over her. If that meant she couldn’t stay with Amber, she was not buying into it.
Her mom squeezed her arm. Claire hadn’t let go of it through the entire ordeal. Nor had her dad let go of her hand. They were on her right side. The left side she did not even want to think about.
Claire said, “Honey, you’ll come home with us, at least for one night.”
“I need to be with Amber, Mom. She doesn’t have anybody here.” Jenna’s entire body felt numb, but she shivered uncontrollably beneath a thin blanket.
The fifty-something, gray-haired doctor handed a clipboard to the nurse beside him. He did not follow her from the room, but slid off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Jenna,” he said, “there’s a bruise on the back of your head the size of Iowa. You’ve just had fifteen stitches sewn into your arm. Not to mention the trauma you experienced while sitting twenty yards from an exploding bomb. What you need is some very serious rest, young lady.”
“Later. Her husband is overseas somewhere. Mine’s in Iraq.” She had already told him that, but it suddenly seemed important to repeat those facts. “We have to stick together.”
As he slipped his glasses into a breast pocket, his entire demeanor changed. Rigidity left his face and shoulders. His eyes shimmered. It was as if a mask peeled away the doctor and exposed raw compassion. “Thank you for your service.”
Jenna stopped the habitual
tsk
already forming on her tongue. Her typical whine—
It’s not me! I have nothing to do with his madness!
—died in her throat. “You’re welcome.”
He gave his head a slight nod and told them all good-bye.
Jenna looked at Danny standing in a corner, his arms crossed. He’d been her rock, taking care of details that registered themselves like vague threads from a dream. She remembered he put her on a stretcher and rode beside her in the ambulance. He called their parents. At the ER he intercepted a clerk and dug in Jenna’s purse for an insurance card.
It wasn’t until after they arrived at the ER that he fell apart. She had watched him lean back against the wall and slide down it until he sat on the floor, curled like a ball, face buried in his hands. Everything grew fuzzy after that, her mind wandering off into some misty place.
Now Danny eyed her, a curious expression on his face.
Jenna shrugged.
He said, “It’s okay. It’s where you should be.”
“I don’t want to be.”
“I understand.”
Their dad cleared his throat. “Anything we need to know?”
Danny chuckled. “Nah.”
Jenna had no words. What could she say? Something had shifted inside of her. Maybe it was fact finally ruling out the dominance of emotion. She hated that Kevin was a Marine. She hated with a passion that they were separated because he was in the military. Therefore she did not
want
to be associated with the military. But she was. Danny understood that.
He walked to the bedside. “I’m sorry you’ve got a brother who participates in antiwar protests. I’m sorry you got hurt at one of those protests.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You’re not an extremist. You’re not responsible for their actions.”
He touched her cheek. “Want me to find her?”
“Thanks.” She smiled. “Amber Ames. Mrs. Joseph Ames.”
J
enna’s dad helped her sit up on the hard table, unbelievably referred to as a bed. Its paper covers twisted noisily beneath her. The room started a slow spin.
“Honey,” her mom said, “you don’t have to move yet.”
She must look as green as she felt. The numbness lessened. Her teeth began chattering.
“The doctor said to lie still until the nurse checks us out.”
“I’ll be okay.” Still shivering, she leaned heavily against her dad as he half carried her to a chair. She sat and rested her head against its back. “Rosie’s okay, right? That’s what Danny said?”
“Yes, honey.” Claire rolled a stool over to the chair. “He talked with Erik. Everyone is fine.” She resumed alternately patting and massaging Jenna’s right arm.
“Mom, I’m really here.”
Claire kissed her hand. “Max, hand us that blanket.”
Chuckling, he picked it up and draped it over Jenna. “She’s going to chase us out if we don’t stop hovering.”
Jenna smiled. They’d hovered through x-rays, injections, an extraction of stained glass, and stitches. All that was left to hover about was clothing and a wheelchair ride to Amber’s room.
“I need a top.” She wore the hospital’s blue print cotton shirt, its back open, and her black skirt. Her stockings had not survived, but her shoes were on the floor. The blouse was long gone, minus the left sleeve the medic had cut away while it was still on her. “You haven’t seen my jacket?”
“No. They’ll have a spare T-shirt for you. Jen, seriously, we can find out about Amber, but then we need to go straight home. I’ll bring you back tomorrow.”
Jenna admired her mom. They were friends in the way that a mother and daughter could be, open and direct with each other. Real. Things like hovering and whining did not upset their rapport.
But Jenna felt a new determination crackle through her, almost a physical straightening of her spine. Her husband was overseas. Why did she keep repeating that? She was the wife of a Marine. Certain things, certain obligations, were expected of her.
“Mom.” Jenna shivered, chilled as if she’d been dunked in a tubful of ice. Her head throbbed. Her left forearm felt like a hot knife sank into it. “I am staying with Amber.”
Claire stared at her for a long moment. “Okay. Then I’ll stay with you.”
Jenna smiled. “Dad, when did that guy say Kevin would get your message?”
“He couldn’t say for sure.” Max’s brow creased. He never could hide his worry very well.
“Bet you already told me that too.” She had lost track of several conversations.
“This is why—”
“I’m better now. I’m here. I’m really in the moment.”
“Yeah, well if you don’t stay put longer than three minutes this time, you’re going home.”
In unison, Claire and Jenna broke into song, an old family joke the women employed when the guys acted overly tough. “Macho, macho man.”
Her dad shook his head.
The door opened, and Danny entered with Skylar, both of them grinning crazily. “Hey,” he said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Skylar reached over and tugged the brim of his cap until it covered his face.
“Ouch!” He chuckled.
Jenna exchanged a glance of surprise with her mom. Had they just witnessed friendly banter between the two people who had yet to share a smile? Danny must be feeling the rush of relief if he was able to act natural with Skylar.
Skylar gave Danny’s hat a final tug and stepped over to Jenna’s side. Concern quickly replaced the grin as she knelt next to the chair. “Jenna, I am so sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Max said, “How did you find out?”
Skylar cringed. “I-I was there. With Danny.”
Well, wasn’t that tidbit interesting? And Danny hadn’t breathed a word to them about it.
Claire groaned in an exaggerated way. “You were both at the protest. I guess that means we have
two
of you pacifists in the family.”
Skylar inhaled sharply, loud enough for Jenna to hear. She looked at her closely. There was something different about her. The sixties throwback look was gone. Her jeans and shirt weren’t her usual baggy style. Her hair was caught up in a ponytail, not twisted into a makeshift knot. Only one hoop hung from each earlobe.
But it was more than that, something behind the physical image. Jenna couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. She sensed, though, that the distance Skylar always kept between herself and the family was somehow lessened.
“Claire.” Skylar’s eyes were wide, her lower lip quivered. “I’m not family.”
“Why, of course you are, honey.”
Skylar started crying softly.
In one fluid motion, Claire moved from the stool to the floor and pulled Skylar to herself in a hug. “Oh, Skylar. Of course you’re family.”
O
f course she was family?
As she sat on the hospital floor, Skylar hiccupped little sobs into Claire’s shoulder. The woman’s words echoed in her mind. They reverberated in her heart. The sentiment, however, could not find a place to take root. There was no fertile ground inside of her, only what felt like huge slabs of concrete.
Danny’s voice came from behind. “We’ll make you an honorary Cleaver. We’ve already added a few extra members to the family. What’s one more?”
Jenna laughed weakly.
Skylar raised her head from Claire’s embrace and wiped a sleeve over her face. The whole thing was totally insane. She could be a Cleaver. It didn’t matter. Pierson wasn’t her real last name. She might as well add another to the list.
If they only knew who she was, what she was. What she had done.
“What?” Danny teased. “No retort?”
Claire stood. “Hush. Leave her alone.”
“Aw, Mom. You always did like her best.”
Skylar couldn’t join in their laughter. It was too much an inside joke, a family thing. And no matter what they said, she wasn’t one of them.
She stood and gently touched Jenna’s wrist. Above it the skin was discolored and swollen. A gazillion stitches followed a long, crooked line. “Does it hurt?”
“I can’t feel a thing.” Jenna’s eyes fluttered at half-mast, the lids and under-eye areas nearly as brown-black as the irises. Her hair was matted and disheveled. She was the type of female who looked sophisticated in whatever she wore—except, apparently, for a hospital gown over a skirt.