Forbidden (7 page)

Rose Lake, Minnesota – Thursday, December 18, 1969

L
ydia Henry bent over the
toilet in the downstairs bathroom of the farm house, retching what surely had to be the last of her insides into the freshly-scrubbed white bowl. With a gasp she sat down hard on the cold wooden floor, bracing both palms against it for leverage, remaining as motionless as a threatened spider. And yet still her belly pitched and heaved, forcing bile up the back of her throat for the thousandth time that morning. Straight out from the open bathroom door the kitchen windows were in her direct line of view; no one was home at this hour of the day, and the sky was leaden and gray, exactly the way her soul felt right now.

After a few minutes had passed she rose gingerly to her feet and turned to the sink, bent and splashed water over her face. She caught a glimpse of herself in the round, wood-framed mirror directly above the faucet and winced; she looked ill and peaked, her hair hanging in a limp braid over one shoulder, a dingy and depressing glimpse into the role of farm wife and mother she was now inevitably destined for. Her belly jumped again and she clung to the edge of the sink.

“Goddamn bastard,” she muttered, not sure if she meant the baby in her womb or John Ryan; either were direct candidates for her wrath.
You coward
, she hissed at herself for the hundredth time since this nightmare had begun. She was too terrified to get an abortion, fearful of the pain, but even more so of the everlasting hell her Catholic soul would be bound for if she were to kill the infant growing inside of her. She glared into her red-rimmed brown eyes in the mirror, seductive eyes that were the rich brown of pecans, fringed in heavy black lashes, a sharp and fascinating contrast to her golden-blond mane of hair. She glared until the tears came again, hot and furious, drenching her pale cheeks. She considered for a moment killing herself right here in the house, all over Daniel Sternhagen's kitchen floor, blood blooming bright and red from the wounds she would open in her skin. Let John have that on his soul. And hers would still be condemned to hell.

But Daniel had been kind to her. Kinder than any man she had yet known in her 19 years, and she owed him the courtesy of at least an explanation. Certainly it would hurt him to find her sprawled lifeless on the hooked rug in front of the woodstove.
And you'd still be murdering the baby
, she reminded herself darkly, before giving over to full-scale weeping. The house was clean enough for the moment; she could certainly allow herself a moment to sit at the table and sob.

The worst of it was that she still loved goddamn John Ryan with every inch of her heart. Surely he had loved her, too, in those stolen moments they had found together all through the summer and fall of what had been the most exquisitely wonderful year of her life. Before this…before her birth control had failed her, a sickening discovery she had made just before Thanksgiving. John Ryan, with his marvelously strong hands, his dark eyes and black hair…the way his black mustache made him look a little like a pirate. Yes, he was married. Yes, he had his own children already – the Catholic girl inside of the woman in love had terrible pangs about that – but Lydia could not…
would
not…deny the way he made her feel. She had given herself over to him with no restraints whatever.

“
Lydia, you are the most beautiful creature ever made
,” he told her the first time they had made love. He was a lawyer; he had a good excuse for working late, and she, free after her days of keeping Dan Sternhagen's house, had no trouble sneaking into the office to meet him. And his wife, the stern, frigid, fanatically religious Hannah Ryan…Lydia shuddered to imagine John having to share his life with a woman who had slept in a separate bed since the birth of their youngest child
seven years ago!

Lydia was no virgin at 19, but he was hardly in the position to mind that. His body between her legs was all she could think about during her long days of scrubbing and cooking; he couldn't meet her every evening, but often enough, and it was all she lived for that summer. He would wind her hair around his wrists as he made love to her; he loved her hair, so long and golden…hair he had not touched since the moment she had revealed her secret to him. His face had grown stone cold. She would never forget that; it eradicated entirely the memory of the way his hot, dark eyes burned into hers when he pumped into her time and again.

“How could you let this happen?” he had asked her in a stricken voice. “What the hell am I supposed to do about this, Lydia? I have a wife. I have a goddamn reputation in this town.”

In his eyes she was now reduced to the lowest common denominator: a slut, a whore. And now a liar of the most incredible proportions. She knew Daniel wanted her; she felt the ways his eyes followed her. he was a widower, and handsome in his own fair way; she knew she could use that. Bank on it. She had felt his desire, though carefully guarded, thrumming around her since last spring when she had taken the job as a way to save for nursing school in Minneapolis. Now even that was erased, thanks to the baby…the goddamn baby she didn't want in the first place. At the kitchen table here and now she sobbed until her throat was raw, wanting to harm herself physically, hating Daniel as much as she owed him, because he had actually believed her. She knew that he wanted her enough to accept her bastard baby as his own.

“Sweetheart, we'll never tell anyone the truth, not even the kids,” he told her, two weeks ago tonight. She had been sitting in the living room, on the sofa she brushed every other day for him, her face buried in her hands, his own resting lightly on her bent knees. Before that moment he had never touched her other than to help her with her coat. Lydia tried not to think of now much John had loved to touch her legs, how she had taken to wearing the shortest skirts she could find, just to see how he reacted. Daniel was still talking. “We'll raise the baby together. Wilder and Shelly will help. I'll love it like my own, and everything will be all right.”

She told Daniel her boyfriend had left town, and he had believed her. She told him her boyfriend was a farmhand for old Mr. Darby, a traveling worker who helped bring in the harvest. She told Daniel she didn't think she would ever see him again, and her agony had been real enough. Certainly John Ryan's name need never be mentioned, except in the depths of her own heart, deeply buried. Lydia knew she needn't fear
him
ever spilling the truth. Daniel, gullible as a young boy in some ways, believed her; he felt deeply sorry for her, but it was more than that: she was a stunningly beautiful woman, and he was as isolated in his heart as a person could be. He loved Margaret's children, his Shelly and Wilder, but they were so young, they couldn't have known how alone he felt in his bed at night, how he ached for the comfort of a woman in that bed. And, he reminded himself, Lydia had no one; her mother was a failing widow who lived in the nursing home in Rose Lake.

Long minutes passed, and Lydia sighed deeply, her head sagging against her folded arms, the tears spent. She rose abruptly and made her way to the liquor cabinet, drank several deep swallows from the fat-bellied brandy bottle, until her innards felt slightly more still. And, wiping her eyes one last time, she turned to finish the dishes piled in the huge farmhouse sink.

***

Their wedding
took place two days after Christmas. The ceremony was held at the St. Francis retirement home so Marilyn Henry could bear witness to her only child's marriage vows. The nurses wheeled her out in a chair, where she watched, flanked by Daniel Sternhagen's two children, who also stared mutely at the proceedings; the girl cried quietly to herself, but the boy remained dry-eyed, rubbing his nose furiously all through the preacher's words. Only Daniel seemed truly happy, smiling and kissing his young bride with enthusiasm; Lydia's face was as pale as a ghost's behind her heavy make-up, but Marilyn was going blind and didn't observe this, wouldn't have had much to say anyway; she could only be described accurately as a Catholic nut, not unlike many of the ex-farm wives with whom she now shared a roof.

Daniel's best friend Bar Taylor held a reception for them immediately after, at Rose Lake Lodge, which he owned. It was a small affair, attended only by a handful of their friends, and Michelle and Wilder kicked the legs of the table at which they were seated, punch cups untouched, leaving soggy rings on the linen tablecloth before them. Wilder had a cold, and was whiny, and Michelle couldn't stop staring at her father and Lydia, who were dancing to the music from a small local band. Her own best friend, Raellen Taylor, was seated next to her. Rae and her older brother Bar, Jr. were the only other kids at the wedding. Rae nudged Michelle and tried for a little optimism, commenting, “They seem pretty happy, don't they?”

Michelle nearly came out of her skin, rounding on her friend with venomous eyes. “Rae, what are you talking about? He doesn't even know her. She tries on Mama's clothes from her closet when she thinks no one is looking! I hate her.”

Rae blew out her breath in a big huff, but then added, “Shelly, I'm sorry. Maybe she'll be nicer to you guys now.”

Suddenly Caroline Taylor, Rae's mother, was sitting down with them, her dark hair framed by the gold netting of her hat. She smelled like gin and tonics and her bright lipstick was smudged onto her teeth. She leaned in close to the kids and said, “Don't they look well together?”

Rae surreptitiously rolled her eyes at Michelle. Caroline was either undaunted or oblivious to their lack of response, and reached to tousle Wilder's blond curls. He darted his head away from her manicured hand. “You'll finally have a new mommy,” she said gaily, giving them a lipstick-streaked smile, and Michelle felt like throwing up. If she did, she would aim for the shiny gold material stretched tight across Caroline's breasts.

“Anyone here care for a dance?” Bar, Rae's father, tall and handsome in his dark suit, approached their table to ask. Caroline ignored him, but Rae lit up with a smile and hopped to her feet. “Sure, Daddy.”

“You kids have fun,” Caroline blathered as a statement of farewell and tripped off towards the bar in her spiky-heeled shoes. Michelle looked at her little brother and said, “Assholes.”

And Wilder laughed.

Rose Lake, Minnesota – Tuesday, June 20, 1995

B
ryce woke to find sun
framing the drawn windowshade in a rectangle of gold, and realized that the rushing waterfall from her dream was in fact a rippling chorus of birdsong. She curled into herself in the downy bed, hugging her arms tight around her body, trying to recapture the feeling from her dream, a warm, good one, but it shredded as her other senses caught hold of the day. The roses beside the bed had dropped a few of their petals, some of which curled pink and soft as feathers atop the pillow she hadn't used. The fragrance was as sweet as honey, and she breathed deeply.

She had slept like the dead last night, limp beneath the white quilt. She tried to move it from her over-warm body now, and was surprised to find the huge orange cat curled near her feet, watching her with steady golden eyes.

“Hello there,” she whispered, reaching to offer her fingers. He smelled them delicately and then proceeded to wash his paws in a leisurely fashion. In the next second her door was thrown open and Bryce tugged the covers to her neck with a small shriek as Emma popped her head around the door and said, “Breakfast's ready downstairs.” Seeing the cat she added ironically, “You're not supposed to be in here, Nunu.”

“Emma! What's the matter with you?” Evelyn yelled at her from down the hall. “You have to knock on the door before you open it, you ding-dong.” Bryce, who was almost smiling by this point, did as Evelyn called, “Sorry, Bryce!”

“Hey, it's fine,” she told Emma, whose bottom lip came out belligerently. “I'll be right down.”

But instead of retreating, Emma entered the room fully, dressed in a one-piece swimsuit with a cheery rainbow pattern and a little flared skirt. She was chewing gum and her blond curls were in a messy ponytail. She plopped on the bed near the cat and said, “Your mom is my auntie Michelle. I want to meet her sometime.”

No, you don't
, Bryce thought, but said in an attempt at pacifying her, “You probably will someday.”

But Emma plowed ahead. “How come she's not coming to Grandpa's funeral? Wasn't he her dad?”

Bryce studied the little girl's soft profile a moment; how the hell to respond? Emma stroked the cat's spine without looking at Bryce. Shit, a pat answer was not going to work in this situation. “My mom has some…issues about coming back here.” It sounded stupid even to her own ears.

“What issues?” Emma asked, more curious than accusatory. Thankfully at that moment Evelyn rounded the door like an avenging angel. Emma darted out of her big sister's grasp with a squeal and pounded down the hall; the cat bounded after her, moving faster than Bryce thought something that round possibly could.

“Sorry,” Evelyn said again, and closed the door with a bang, yelling, “Em, get back here! You have to ride with me! Uncle Matty is bringing Bryce!”

Shit, shit, shit!
She was not prepared to deal with stress like this so early in the morning. Her face torched with blood as she fully appreciated the fact that Matthew lived here. In this very house, under this roof, for a long time. Memories were built into these walls for him and Bryce wanted to run her fingers over everything he had touched here, to see every picture of him, to take it all in like a heavenly drug.
Mother, I could kill you for these secrets,
she thought viciously. Or fate, destiny, as though these were concrete entities whose throats she could put her hands around. Whatever she should call the malevolent chance that had put her and Matthew into each other's paths and caused them to react so strongly to each other. Alone in a room in the house her young half-uncle had called home for years, she wrapped her arms around her bent legs and held tight for a moment, fortifying her nerves to face this week.

It's only a week
, she reminded herself.
After this you can go home…or at least back to Oklahoma…and forget you ever met this man, forget that he ever touched you…you can marry Wade like he's been hinting and raise a dozen of his babies in his mother's basement…

She cut herself off because her future all at once seemed utterly mapped out before her third eye, as dull and ashy as the landscape beyond Wagon Box Court; she stared into this imaginary rendering with a chill in her gut, seeing herself flopped on a sofa in a trailer like her mother's, listlessly smoking as the blue glow of a television set flickered over her face. Growing older and grayer, her body unkissed and uncaressed, her soul slowly withering away.

I could have done it, could have lived with it, if not for the other night
. She knew this to the bottom of her heart and for a moment the feeling hollowed out her very soul.

***

She crept
out of her room and down the stairs 20 minutes later into what appeared to be an empty house. Her heart was slapping her ribs almost painfully; she was conscious of nothing but the fact that Matthew may appear around any corner, with those beautiful eyes that seared right into the center of her. She had dressed in cut-offs and the only other top she had with her, barring the funeral outfit: a plain apple-green t-shirt with two daisies growing up from the hem. It was a ridiculous shirt, with a small rip along one seam, but she had been in a hurry on Sunday, and there was no time to get to the laundromat before her bus left, courtesy of Michelle. A quick shower, a splash of make-up, and she'd wound her long hair up into a heavy knot on the back of her skull.

She edged around the corner from the dining room to kitchen and there he was, calmly sipping a mug of coffee. He had of course heard her creeping down the stairs like a spy in his house. He pinned her with his incredible eyes for a second too long before saying, “Morning.”

“Morning,” she returned. She noticed the coffeepot on the edge of the stove and moved towards it gratefully.

“In the cupboard right above you,” he told her in response to the unasked question.

She grabbed a mug and poured herself a steaming cup, smelling the lilacs out the open windows beyond the small round kitchen table. She joined him at the table, feeling raw and sickly vulnerable. With every ounce of her being she wanted to be held tight against his chest right now. She wanted it so much she could hardly even look at him.

“No one's here,” he told her for no particular reason. “The girls just left for the Pull Inn. I volunteered to drive you down there, I hope you don't mind.”

She gave in and stared back into his eyes, both of them acutely conscious of their night together in Oklahoma…when they had kissed like lovers about to be parted indefinitely, when he had held himself still and deep within her, just marveling at the way their bodies fit. She would never force the memory of that night from her mind, even if she lived to be a thousand. No one else in the world would ever touch her like that again, she was deadly certain. Even with the truth of their relationship looming like a third person in the room, Bryce couldn't stop herself from taking him in, studying his face as thoroughly and wordlessly as he studied her own.

He was so handsome he was beautiful. It killed her to realize that she would never be able to kiss him again. His jaw was clearly freshly shaved, but still retained a hint of the dark whiskers that by evening would be all sandpapery and irresistable. He braced his strong forearms on the table before himself, cupping both big hands around the coffee mug, sliding his thumbs slowly up and down its ceramic length. Was he doing that on purpose or unconsciously? Because it was making her half-crazy with desire. Her heart was lashing her insides, but she wouldn't be the first to look away, goddamn it. Let him.

“I don't mind,” she whispered at long last, breaking their gaze, and he leaned back a fraction.

“I work down there, too, we all do,” he said. “I'll show you around today.”

“Did you know about me before last night?” she asked him suddenly, aggravated by bullshit. He lowered his eyes and breathed out through his nose for a moment, as though trying to compose himself.

“Yeah,” he said at last, quietly, looking back at her with an open, earnest expression. “I did. I thought your name was Elizabeth.”

“It is. Elizabeth Bryce Mitchell.”

“Mitchell must be your dad's name?”

Bryce traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her index fingers. Seconds later, with no trace of self-pity, she informed him, “I've never met my father. I don't even know his name, if you want the truth.”

Matthew didn't offer any comment on this, just kept gazing so seriously at her.

“Do you remember my mother?” she asked next, unable to bear the silence, sliding the mug of coffee out of the way; there was no way she could relax enough to drink it right now anyway. “When did she leave Minnesota?”

Matthew looked up toward the ceiling for a moment, back into time. “I remember her a little. I was only about three or so when she left. She would sometimes play with me, hold me on her lap. I wouldn't recognize her in a crowd now, though. I've never seen so much as a picture of either of you.”

Bryce flushed and closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, Matthew was looking at her with something on his face that she didn't fully understand; it was as though he wanted to crack her open and know every last secret she had, too.

“I've been going over and over in my mind what happened that night, Bryce,” he said, low and intent, and her heart swelled just hearing her name from his lips. “And I wouldn't change it for anything. I want you to know that, and I don't want you to feel ashamed about it.”

It touched her deeply to hear those words. “I wouldn't change it, either,” she told him, crazy for any little excuse just to touch him. He curled his fingers into his palms for the same reason, afraid to let himself make contact with even the back of her hand.

“It's killing me right now,” he admitted, unable to stop the words. “Before Wilder called me that night…when you fell asleep and we were lying there in that room…I wanted to take you and run away with you.”

Joy splashed through her.

“I wish we were there again,” she said, hurting inside. “I can't believe that we're related.” But somehow she couldn't make herself believe it would have mattered to her that night, had she known. She said, softly, “When I woke up and you were gone…”

“I'm so sorry,” he told her again, shaking his head side to side. “I had to leave after I talked to Wilder…I felt so guilty for being away when Dad died…”

“No, you did what you had to,” she told him. “I understand that now.”

“My dad…he was such a good man,” Matthew said, quietly. “I didn't even get to say good-bye to him, and now he's gone.”

“Matthew, I'm so sorry,” she whispered, aching to touch him. But they couldn't do that anymore, not ever again. And it struck her to the bone to realize this.

“It's all right,” he said, rising to his feet abruptly. Standing, he towered over her, making her feel at once utterly protected. If she had stepped forward and placed her nose against him, it would have touched the center of his chest. “You didn't eat any breakfast,” he observed, changing the topic.

“Here, I'll grab a banana,” she said, noticing the bunch hanging from a hook under the cupboards. “I don't usually eat much for breakfast, anyway.”

“You'll build up an appetite at the campground,” he told her, hardly conscious of what he was saying, leading the way outside and to his big old rusting truck. He actually paused and opened the door for her, then closed it firmly behind her and rounded the hood. She was certain he was naturally polite that way, and not putting on a show for her. He was tender. She knew that from making love with him, knew the gentleness in his big hands, and how he could hold himself so still inside of her…so sweetly…

Stop this
, she told herself.
You can't think like that anymore
.

But as he climbed inside and flashed her a grin, that effortless grin that he'd given her just before their first kiss back in Oklahoma, she was stunned again at how right it felt to be near him. She dragged her eyes away and asked the first thing came to her mind. “So your dad bought the campground when?”

“In 1980,” he told her, driving with his right hand hanging at the bottom of the wheel. “It was about a month before I turned 10, and Wilder and Dad were tired of running the farm, and this place came up for sale. Dad brought me out here in this truck, actually, and we sat and looked at the main office, which looked pretty shitty and rundown back then, and Dad said, ‘How'd you like to go camping every day this summer?' Of course I said that would be great, and he handed me a key and told me my wish was granted, just like that. Wilder and Erica were going to help us run it, he said. They'd been married for about two years by then, but they've been together forever, since junior high.”

Bryce smiled at the slightly wistful tone in his voice. “They seem really happy, those two.”

“They are. Erica would probably slap me for saying this, because she's not that old, but she's been more like a mother to me than anyone I remember. And I just love those kids more than anything in the world.”
Or did until now
, he almost said. He couldn't believe the strength of what he was feeling, and for a second he thought of a conversation he'd heard between his older brother and Erica, when he was about 12 or so.

“I worry about Matty,” Erica had told Wilder; they had been on the big couch in the living room, a fire burning that chilly winter night back when. Matthew paused upstairs at hearing his name and crept to the top of the steps to listen. “He gets himself too attached to things. He's so soft-hearted, Wilder.”

“That ain't exactly a bad thing,” Wilder said back, his voice low. “Dad's the same way; Matty got that from him.”