Читать книгу Home to Harmony - Dawn Atkins - Страница 9

MARCUS ROLLED THE clay-spattered dolly toward Christine’s car, not certain what bothered him more: how much David looked like Nathan or how abruptly he’d been caught by Christine.

She was pretty, of course, and lively, a coil of energy ready to spring into action. It had to be the contrast to his quiet life. She was like an explosion of confetti, a surprise that made you smile.

And when she’d burst in on him dressing, he’d all but expected her. He’d felt abruptly alert. Awake.

Which made him realize he’d been numb for a while, since long before the divorce. The sensation almost hurt, like the tingling ache of a sleep-numbed arm regaining circulation.

Then there was her son. The last thing Marcus needed was a walking, talking reminder of his stepson. His memories and regrets were difficult enough.

He got to the car as Christine staggered beneath the huge suitcase she’d dragged from the overhead luggage rack. He lunged to catch it before it hit the gravel. If she’d waited… But, then, Christine Waters didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who waited for much at all.

She jumped in with both feet, which at the moment were clad in heeled sandals, not exactly stable on uneven ground. She was dressed for the city in a filmy top, white shorts and flashy jewelry. It was as if she hadn’t wanted to admit she was coming to a commune. Her mother was clearly a source of tension, too.

What the hell was he doing analyzing the woman anyway?

“That’s David’s bag,” she said, nodding at the one he held, her face flushed from exertion. “Let’s load his stuff first.”

Marcus put the bag on the cart and David added an electric guitar case. “You play?” Marcus asked.

David nodded. He had the same long blond hair, scrawny frame, soulful eyes and narrow face as Nathan. Even Lady had been fooled, barreling at him with joy, her owner home at last.

“His teacher says he’s gifted, but he hardly practices,” Christine said. “He’ll have time when we’re here to—”

“I’m not gifted,” David blurted, glaring at his mother.

“I didn’t practice much until I got into a band,” Marcus said to smooth the moment.

“You play, too?” Christine locked gazes with him. Her eyes were an unusual color—a soft gray.

“Acoustic these days, but yes, I play.”

“Maybe you and David could jam.” Her face lit up, but her son’s fell, clearly mortified.

“God, Mom.”

“If you’re interested, of course.” But he was certain the boy would decline. A good thing. Marcus would prefer to keep his distance.

“David…? Answer the man!”

Easy, Mom, Marcus wanted to warn her.

“Maybe, whatever,” David mumbled, clearly fuming. He yanked the cart forward just as Christine tossed a bag. When it hit the ground, she teetered and Marcus steadied her arm.

Balance restored, Christine stepped back, her cheeks pink. He noticed that in the swelter of early summer the woman smelled like spring.

“Sorry,” David muttered, tossing the fallen suitcase onto his load and shoving the cart toward the house.

“Everything I say pisses him off,” she said with a light laugh, though she looked sad and confused.

“That’s not uncommon with teenagers.”

“Really? So, in your opinion, he’s normal?” She faced him dead on, standing too close, digging in with her eyes. “Aurora told us you were a psychiatrist.”

“I’m a partner at a mental health institute near L.A., yes.” Until they offered to buy him out, which he expected when he returned. Better for everyone.

“But you’ve treated clients, though, right?”

“In the past, yes, but—”

“I mean, I wasn’t asking for free therapy…well, not yet anyway.” Another grin. “I bet that happens at parties a lot, huh? People hitting you up for advice?”

“At times.” Not that there had been any parties after all that had happened—the controversy over his research, Nathan, his crumbling marriage. Fewer phone calls. A handful of e-mails and cards. Mostly silence.

Christine had turned to watch David drag the dolly to the terrace. “He’ll be seeing a counselor in New Mirage, which I hope will help. Michael Lang? Do you know him? Is he good?”

“I don’t know him, no.” It surprised him to learn the tiny town had a therapist of any kind. His friend Carlos Montoya, a GP, offered the only medical care, a three-daya-week clinic, with Carlos driving over from Preston.

“It should help, right? I mean, the counseling?”

“It can,” he said. “If the therapist’s style suits the client. Assuming your son wants to be treated.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. David’s not exactly into it. He agreed to it to keep from getting expelled. Plus, it was my idea and he hates me lately.” She sighed.

“The transition to adulthood can be difficult,” he said, moving to the trunk, wanting to get on with the task.

“We never used to fight like this,” she said, joining him in surveying the load of office equipment, again standing too close. “We always talked, you know? About everything. He came to me with his problems, talked about school and friends. Now every conversation is a minefield. One wrong word and he explodes.”

“It can be that way.” And so much worse. He leaned in to shift a computer into position.

“Do you have kids, Marcus?”

The question startled him and he jerked upward, banging his head on the trunk lid. “Not of my own, no.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

He realized he’d spoken sharply. “It’s fine.” He braced the CPU on the rim of the trunk with his hip so he could rub the knot on his head.

“Sorry about that. Wait, we need the cart.” It sat empty outside the room David had chosen. “David, the cart!” she called. “I swear I taught him better manners.”

She dashed after it. It was impossible not to watch her run, graceful and quick, even in heels. The sight of her firm curves and long legs in motion set off an unwelcome reaction below the belt. He was human, of course. And a man.

No excuse to gawk. He started emptying the trunk.

The rattle of wheels told him she’d returned and he began stacking items onto the cart. “He’s excited about the room,” she said, as if he’d asked the question. “This is just a rough patch, you know? Most parents and their kids survive the teen years, right?”

“Most, yes.” But not all.

Not all.

She stared at him, clearly wondering what he meant.

Afraid she’d pry—the woman seemed to have no boundaries—he put the last item, a fax machine, on top and pushed the cart toward Harmony House. “Where to now?”

“Toward the back of the house. Through the courtyard.”

They walked together, with Christine placing a steadying hand on the stack. “I hate that David’s room is so far from mine. Of course, you’re next door, so can I count on you to make sure he keeps curfew?”

He stopped moving and blinked at her.

“Joking. I’m joking, Marcus. Jeez.” She laughed, then her smile went rueful. “I just wish I could get in his head and make him make better choices.”

“How does David feel he’s doing?” The question was an automatic one, something he’d have said to a client.

“Fine, of course. Everyone else has the problem, not him. When he’s disrespectful at school, it’s the teacher’s fault. When he loses his temper, someone else made him. Smoking pot is no big deal, so that’s my problem, not his.”

She shifted to block the cart from moving and faced him. “I can’t get through to him. I feel so helpless, you know?”

“I do.” Marcus had been as close as Nathan would permit him to be, but he’d never forgive himself for not doing more, for not intervening somehow, no matter what Elizabeth wanted, no matter what his own training and intellect told him was possible.

Christine resumed walking. “I can’t believe I dumped all that on you.” She shook her head and her dark hair shivered over her shoulders. “You’re easy to talk to.”

“I don’t mind.” Not as much as he’d expect to. Christine was so direct, so in-your-face. Elizabeth had been intense, but quietly so. Angry, Elizabeth smoldered. Christine would no doubt burst into flames. The idea made him smile.

“Probably all that listening training, huh?” She stopped to scratch her calf. He noticed insect bites on both her legs and her arms. He could mention the salve he had upstairs, but then she’d know he’d been staring at her body. He sighed.

“What I really need is a shower,” she said, shaking her top as if to fan herself. “How’s the water pressure these days?”

“Acceptable. Not strong, but steady.”

“In the old days it was a hopeless trickle. Which made it no picnic trying to wash off the smell of goats. This way.” She turned them toward the rear entrance to the courtyard.

“I can imagine. So you grew up here?”

“I was seven when we came and when I left ten years later, I was all Scarlett O’Hara about it— ‘As God is my witness, I’ll never go smelly again!’”

Marcus smiled. She joked about things that he could tell clearly troubled her. “And you haven’t been back since?”

“No. It’s been eighteen years. That sounds bad, I know, but Aurora and I have a rocky history.” The cart stalled in the grass of the courtyard. Chickens squawked their objection to the interruption. He used force to get it moving again.

“My whole goal is to help her without getting into heavy battle.” She bit her lip, clearly worried. “I’ll be walking on eggshells—free-range eggshells.”

He smiled at her quip. “She clearly needs your help, so maybe if you focus on what you’re here to do…”

“‘Busy hands are happy hands’?” She grinned. “Is that your professional advice?”

“It works.” He paused. “Frankly, a psychology practice built around folk wisdom is as sound as any other.”

“So, ‘a stitch in time saves nine…people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones…an apple a day keeps the doctor away’? Like that?”

“All valid, depending on the issue.”

“Interesting, Doctor B.” She tapped her lips. “Got one for David? ‘Straighten up and fly right’ maybe?”

“Too directive perhaps.”

“Also very military-schoolish. Then how about a parenting one for me?”

“Hmm. Maybe ‘a watched pot never boils.’”

“Nice try. Patience is not one of my virtues.”

“Something to work on then.”

“You shrinks, always with the assignments.” She sighed. “So how much do I owe you for the session?”

“No charge. Consider it part of the bell service at Harmony House.” He held the door for her to step into the hallway. He realized he was enjoying talking with her. Other than lunches in town with Carlos, he didn’t have many lighthearted social contacts, so this was…pleasant. And she smelled like spring.

STEPPING INTO THE COOL hallway of the owners’ quarters, Christine’s smile felt easy for the first time since she’d arrived. Joking around with Marcus had been fun. He’d been taken aback at first. She came on strong, she knew, loud and chatty and nosy, while Marcus was quiet and self-contained, a still pool happy to remain ripple free. He’d joked back, though.

The wooden floor creaked in a familiar way as they walked past the tiny kitchen, Aurora’s bedroom—its door closed—the bathroom, the spare room, then Christine’s old room.

“This is it,” she said, turning the cracked ceramic knob, her heart doing a peculiar hip-hop. The room would be different, of course, after eighteen years. Countless residents had stayed here, she’d bet. But when she stepped inside, she saw it was exactly the same as when she’d left it.

“Oh, my God. Nothing’s changed.”

“It’s very…pink,” Marcus said, pulling the cart inside.

“Bogie painted it for me. It was my princess room, like what I figured Susan Parsons would have. She was the most popular girl at school.”

“Susan from Parsons Foods? She’s married to the mayor, I believe.”

“She was queen back then, so of course she’d marry the mayor.” She ruled the girls who mocked Christine and the other commune kids.

Christine ran her hand over the pink polyester bedspread with the ruffles she’d sewn herself. “I made this, you know.” She touched the sagging canopy netting attached to four broom handles. It looked ridiculous, as did the papier-mâché French Provençal frame around the bureau mirror and the pink fur-padded stool she’d made. “This was my haven. Aurora called me Rapunzel and made fun of me for expecting a prince to save me.”

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Not really, but that didn’t matter to Aurora. Fairy tales were sexist—the girls passive chattel to be bought or rescued.”

“Pretty heavy rhetoric for a seven-year-old to absorb.”

“All I wanted was our cute apartment, my little Catholic school with the neat plaid uniforms and the strict nuns.” Everything squared-off, peaceful, predictable.

“What brought you here?”

“Bogie talked Aurora into it. They’d been friends years before and ran into each other and he got her all fired up.”

“But you not so much?”

“God, no. There were power-outs constantly. No TV. No privacy. People moving in and out.”

“Not to mention no water pressure.”

“You’re getting it, yeah.” She’d been babbling, but it helped ease how strange she felt being here again. She liked how Marcus honed in on her while she talked, really listened, as if the details were vital to him.

“Everything okay?” Bogie stood in the doorway.

“My room’s the same,” she said, still amazed.

“That’s Aurora. She sits in here and thinks about you.”

“You’re kidding. She always laughed at my princess stuff.”

“We’re sure glad to have you home again, Crystal,” Bogie said. The affection in his gray eyes tugged at her. He sounded as though she was here to stay. That made her stomach jump.

Just for the summer, she wanted to remind him, but couldn’t, not with that happy look on his face.

“Well, I’ll let you get settled.” He ducked his gaze, then retreated. That was Bogie’s way, to slip off, disappear, as if he wasn’t worthy of people’s time or attention. How sad. She would spend as much time with him as she could, she decided.

Marcus helped her off-load the bags and equipment.

“The office stuff looks ridiculous in here, huh?” she said, looking around at the desk, computer and printer. “Actually, the only phone is in the kitchen. I’ll have to set up in that alcove if I want to be online at all.”

“The drugstore in New Mirage has computer terminals at the back where the post office is. It’s DSL. That’s what I use.”

“I wonder how hard it would be to get DSL out here. Of course, Aurora thinks computers are a plot to destroy our minds.”

“Should we move the equipment to the alcove?” he asked.

“I’ve kept you too long already. Thanks for the help, Marcus. And for listening to me jabber.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she said, studying him. “I make you jumpy, don’t I? You keep backing away.”

“No.” He looked surprised at her words, then seemed to ponder them. “I haven’t had much social interaction lately….”

“And you prefer it that way?”

He didn’t answer, but she was curious. “Why? Because of the book you’re writing?”

“Aurora mentioned that, too?”

“What’s it about? Psychiatry?”

He nodded.

“So how’s it going?”

“It’s…going.” But distress flared in his eyes and he eased toward the door. “I’ll see you at supper then,” he said and was gone. So he didn’t want to talk about that, either.

What was the deal with him and kids? None of my own, no. Stepkids then maybe? Why not say so?

The man had a lot on his mind, evidently. She wondered why he’d quit seeing clients. Maybe one too many female patients hitting on him. Didn’t every woman crave a man who knew her inside-out, but stayed all the same? Marcus Barnard was a mystery, that was certain. At another place, another time, she might want to solve it.

DAVID STUMBLED INTO the Harmony House kitchen, so frustrated he wanted to smash a mason jar or one of those big pottery plates. His legs ached and he was dying of thirst from climbing hill after hill looking for a cell signal to call Brigitte. He’d failed. No bars. No signal. No Brigitte.

“How’d the exploring go?” his mother asked, all eager and excited. Like he was out having fun, not sweating his balls off for no good reason. “What did you see?”

“I can’t get a cell signal!” He tossed his phone to the floor, instantly sorry he had. If he broke it, Christine wouldn’t replace another one. Why did he get so mad?

“Just use the house phone,” his grandmother said, pointing at a squat black one so old it had finger holes.

“Get permission first,” his mother just had to add, looking up from her laptop. “Toll calls add up fast.” And we’re not made of money. That was always the next line.

“Did you know there was no cell service here?” he asked.

“We can live a few weeks without mobile phones and broadband connections,” she said, holding out a glass of water.

“Wait. You mean there’s no Internet?” That would kill him.

“Dial-up only and we don’t want to tie up the phone a lot.”

“Dial-up’s too slow.”

“Drink the water. You look dehydrated.”

“You’re not one of those computer addicts, are you, David?” his grandmother said, sewing a hole in some overalls. “That’s no way to relate to the world.”

“May I please use your phone, Grandma,” he said, ignoring her jab, being so polite it hurt his throat.

“Anytime you want,” she said. “And call me Aurora, for God’s sake.”

“You can call Brigitte once a day, but keep it brief,” his mother said.

One call a day with the love of his life? No texts, no phone photos, barely e-mail? He was so mad he might explode.

Shaking, he dialed Brigitte’s number one digit at a time, rattle, rattle, rattle. It took forever. This was what they meant by dialing a phone. He carried the handset around the corner into the little den for privacy. Brigitte should be between classes right now. He had to talk to her. Had to.

He listened for a ring, his heart racing, but the call went straight to her voice mail. Her phone was off. David’s insides seemed to empty out. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to calm down. Hanging up, he headed straight for his room. At least he had a room to escape to.

He hated that he was here. His mother had used Grandma Waters’s surgery as an excuse to drag him away from Brigitte.

Brigitte. Her name was a wail in his head.

Up the stairs, he saw Lady was sitting outside his door. Was she waiting for him? He slowed as he approached to keep from scaring her, then crouched and held out his hand. She took a gingerly sniff. “You lonely, girl?” Me, too.

The dog watched him, rigid and wary, but her tail made one flop onto the wood. A yes that warmed his heart.

“I should warn you that she howls at night.”

He turned to look at Marcus Barnard, who’d come up behind him. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted a different room.”

“It’s all right.” David knew how the dog felt. He’d howl, too, if they wouldn’t put him in a mental hospital for it. Already, he had to see a shrink. “Why is she so sad?”

“She misses her owner.”

“Where is he?”

“He died. About a year ago.”

“Wow.” Looking again into Lady’s sad eyes, he felt his own sorrow well up and his eyes start to water. “Sorry, girl.”

Marcus cleared his throat. “She could use a friend and she seems to like you.”

“Yeah?” Would she come into his room? He opened his door and stepped inside. “Want in, girl?”

Lady shivered, whined and stepped toward him, then back. She sat again. David’s heart sank.

“Give her time.” Marcus acted so calm, like nothing could shock him. He was a psychiatrist, so maybe nothing did.

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.” He closed the door, leaving Lady outside. Maybe she thought he needed guarding.

Inside his room, David felt worse. He’d thought it would be cool to have his own place, like in a hotel, but it smelled dusty and neglected and the bed was creaky-ancient and he didn’t have any of his posters. This wasn’t his place. It was a beat-up cell in a nowhere prison. He didn’t even have Internet.

To calm down, he fished a joint from his small stash, then the bag of Cheetos he’d brought from home. He meant to eat only organic from the commune like he and Brigitte had discussed, but that goat cheese had tasted like ass.

He took a giant hit, then flopped onto the bed. From the ice chest he’d put beside his bed he popped a can of Dr Pepper. He would quit junk food once he felt better.

He wanted back to Phoenix now. Brigitte was going to a bunch of parties this weekend. He’d miss the whole summer with her. In August, she was doing a backpack-hitchhike deal, heading to Seattle, then across the country. By Thanksgiving, she’d be in Europe. If he didn’t lose his nerve, he’d go with her, screw school. It was all a fascist factory of mind control anyway.

He took another toke, holding it in a long time, but the pot didn’t erase how raw he felt inside. He should run. Hitch a ride to the pathetic town and take the bus home. If a bus even came to New Mirage.

If he knew how to drive, he’d borrow the Volvo, or one of the commune’s pickups or, hell, maybe that school bus of Bogie’s painted with hippie crap. Brigitte would love how retro it was. But he didn’t know how to drive because Christine said no permit until his grades went up.

She killed every hope every time.

David studied the smoke curling up from the spliff. His mom would go nuts if she knew he’d brought weed. Everything freaked her out. She always had her eye on him, making him nuts with questions: Where are you going? Who will be there? How’s school? Do you like your English teacher? Are you using drugs? Promise me this, swear that, agree to x, never do y.

His thoughts smeared and echoed. The bud was doing its trick. Good. He needed the world to blur. He took a long swallow of soda and a handful of the cheesy curls, which now tasted creamy and tangy and melted amazingly on his tongue.

Christine didn’t know anything that went on inside him. Whenever he tried to say something real to her, she went pale and scared or red and mad.

At times like this, loaded, he thought about his father. If he only knew where he was. Christine refused to find him. She claimed he would disappoint David, hurt him, that he had a terrible temper, that he was a flake and a jerk.

David didn’t believe that. His dad would relate to him. He would know that smoking a little dope was no big deal. David wasn’t a druggie, he wasn’t “using” like his mother claimed. Like he was on meth or heroin.

He’d done mushrooms a couple times, Ecstasy once and a kid at a party had some Vicodin, but that was just recreation. And he didn’t do booze. Too harsh. He didn’t need drugs.

All he needed was Brigitte. His mother hated her because she was older, because she had ideas of her own. So unfair. Thinking that sent the red flood into his head and he wanted to break something—a wall, a door, a window.

It scared him when he got this angry. His mother said that was how his father was. Even if it was true, he probably had good ways to handle it he could teach David.

Brigitte could always talk him down. Brigitte was his steady center. Brigitte was his life. He had to get to her.

So much burned inside him. He wrote stuff—poetry, mostly, like Brigitte, but also song lyrics. He should practice guitar. Once he got better he could compose. Except it took so long to get better. So, so long… And he’d be here so, so long….

He remembered Christine asking Marcus if he would jam with David, like David was a needy geek. He loved his mom, but she wanted to stroke his hair and read him bedtime stories like he was still five and scared of the dark.

He couldn’t take her anymore. And he hated being mean to her. She’d be sad when he left with Brigitte, but she should get it. She’d left home when she was a teenager, too.

Knock, knock. “Can we talk?” Christine again. He put on his headphones for her own good. If he opened the door he’d just hurt her again.