Читать книгу With This Child... - Sally Carleen - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Marcie clutched the steering wheel with damp, sticky hands and made herself focus on the task of driving, on actions that normally came automatically. But not today. Today, leaving Sam’s house, she had to concentrate, to remind herself which pedal to use, to stop at red lights, go on green, turn the wheel at corners.

Her brain, her heart, her entire body, screamed in protest at the overload of emotions. She’d found her daughter alive, talked to her, met the man who’d inadvertently stolen her daughter. And then she’d had to walk quietly away.

Reaching the highway that led to the turnpike, she pulled into a convenience store and parked at the side. Out of the main traffic area, she finally let loose, laid her head in her hands and allowed earthquake tremors to shake her body, while tears spilled between her fingers.

In a minute she’d pull herself together, go into the store and get a cola, then get home as fast as she could. Once in her safe haven, she’d think about everything, about Kyla and what she ought to do next. Right now, she couldn’t face it, couldn’t deal with the huge explosions of happiness and anger and disbelief and sheer terror.

Finally, the tremors subsided, as some of the unbearable tension dissipated. She snatched a handful of tissues from the box in the back seat and dried her eyes.

This wasn’t like her, she thought, to completely lose control. But these were not usual circumstances.

She pushed her hair back from her face. She had to get home and figure out what to do next.

Needing to reassure herself that everything that had just happened was real, she looked around for the envelope containing her pictures of Kyla, along with the detective’s report and the letter from Dr. Franklin.

It wasn’t in her lap.

Or on the passenger seat beside her.

She slid out of the car and searched under the seats, in the back...everywhere. Her movements became more frantic with each empty space she encountered. Her hands trembled as she searched for the second time.

She stepped back from the car and looked at it in disbelieving horror.

The envelope was gone.

It could only have fallen from her lap when she got out at Sam’s house.

Either her pictures were lying in the street, being run over by cars, or Sam and Kyla had noticed them and picked them up.

In that quiet neighborhood, the latter seemed more likely.

By now, Sam and Kyla probably knew the truth.

This wasn’t the way she’d wanted her daughter to find out.

Her mind whirling with black despair and chaos, she sank into the car and closed the door behind her.

With one stupid act, she’d made a terrible situation worse. She needed to get home as fast as possible.

But her fingers refused to turn the key.

She had to face the consequences of her actions. She couldn’t blame her mother or Dr. Franklin for this latest disaster.

In fact, maybe she had to take some of the blame for everything. Would things be different if she’d paid more attention when her baby was born, if she’d asked more questions about the death?

She’d been in shock, stunned by the loss, overwhelmed by guilt, convinced that the death was somehow her fault, because she’d been so stubborn, because she’d refused to consider her mother’s plan of adoption. So she’d allowed Dr. Franklin and her mother to take charge.

She’d asked to hold her child once before they took her away forever, to bury her in the cold, impersonal earth, but Dr. Franklin and her mother had persuaded her not to. She’d had only one look at her baby...Sam and Lisa’s baby...and that look had been blurred by tears.

If she’d done what she knew in her heart she should, if she’d insisted on holding the child, she’d have known immediately it wasn’t hers, wasn’t the baby she’d given birth to.

Now she had to somehow rectify the wrong. She had to take some control over her life, over Kyla’s life. She had to take charge of circumstances, instead of waiting and hoping for the best...trying to hide from the worst. She had to fight for the best. She had to go back to Sam’s house.

The safety of her condo, ninety minutes away, might as well have been on the moon.

She started her car and pulled away from the store in the direction from which she’d just come. Every movement was an effort, as in nightmares when, pursued by a horrible monster, she could move only in slow motion.

A hurricane roared in her ears as she approached the house.

Pushing the brake, stopping her car at the sidewalk, took every ounce of strength she possessed. Then she had to somehow find more to enable her to get out and walk up to the front door.

He met her there, stepping out onto the porch and standing in front of the door, denying her access to his home. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Who are you and what do you want?” He advanced on her, his brow furrowed, his face dark, and she backed away, stumbling against the side of one of the chairs she’d sat in earlier. He loomed over her. “If this is some kind of a joke, it’s not very damn funny. I’m warning you, Marcie Turner, or whoever the hell you are, if you continue to follow me or my daughter, or if you breathe one word of this nonsense to her, you’ll wish you’d never heard of either of us.”

Every angry word slammed painfully against her heart. She’d expected him to be upset, but she hadn’t been prepared for this furious disbelief. She hadn’t been prepared for so much venom from the smiling football coach.

A few feet away, off the porch, the sun still shone brightly. A woodpecker drummed in a nearby tree. A car drove by, releasing a burst of music from its radio. Only in the small area of Sam’s front porch had the world turned grim and ugly.

Her hands fluttered up to push him back, to allow her to regain her balance and defend herself. He jerked away before she could touch him.

A steel band wrapped around her chest, squeezing the breath from her. For Kyla. she reminded herself. For your daughter.

She forced herself to stand straight, to face him, to pull words from her throat. “I haven’t been following you. I came by your house for the first time today, because I had to see Kyla. I had to know for sure if the letter was true, if Kyla was my daughter.”

Sam glared at her, his eyebrows forming a straight, continuous line. “You need help. Psychiatric help. Believe me, you’re not my daughter’s mother.”

He was only lashing out at her because he was frightened of losing someone he loved. She shouldn’t blame him for that. He was fighting for Kyla, just as she was.

But his accusations hurt. She wasn’t accustomed to fighting. She wasn’t accustomed to having a nice person, someone she’d like under other circumstances, hating her, saying horrible things about her.

She reached behind her, clutching the cold, solid wrought iron of the chair back. “I know my own child. You and I need to tatk, to decide what to do, what’s the best thing for Kyla.”

Sam paced to the front of the porch, then back again to stand before her, his fists clenched at his sides. “The best thing for Kyla would be for you to drop off the face of the earth.”

“Maybe,” she admitted, the single word coming out a croak. She cleared her throat, lifted her chin and tried again. “Maybe. But that’s Kyla’s decision. She’s entitled to know the truth, then she can choose how to act on it. If she wants me to leave her alone, I will.”

“No. It’s not her decision. I’m her father. That makes it my decision, and I intend to see to it that she never hears a word of this garbage. I’m going to give you one chance to stop whatever you think you’re doing and disappear quietly before I have to call the police.”

She flinched at his classification of her as a criminal, someone who needed to be dealt with by the police. But he hadn’t called them yet. He must know, deep inside, that she was telling the truth. He must.

She retaliated with her own legal threat. “I talked to a lawyer, and he said I could file a petition with the court requesting genetic testing.” Her own hands clenched into fists, the fingernails digging into her palms painfully, as she watched the anger swell on Sam’s face. “I don’t want to do that,” she added. “I thought we could work something out.”

“Do you really expect me to give serious consideration to a letter you probably typed yourself, and to your ridiculous threat of going to court?” He flung one arm outward. “Go on. Give it your best shot. File all the petitions you want. See if you can find a judge who’ll listen to this trash. But in the meantime—” he leaned closer, jabbing a finger toward her “—you stay away from Kyla.”

“I can,” she whispered, then raised her voice, determined that no one was going to take her child from her a second time. “I can find a judge who’ll listen. I’ve spoken to my mother and Dr. Franklin’s nurse, and they’re both willing to testify. I don’t want to do it that way, but I will. I don’t want to disrupt Kyla’s life. I don’t want to force myself on her.”

“Then don’t. Stay out of her life. Kyla’s not your daughter. She’s my daughter, and believe me, lady, you and I have never made a child together. My wife gave birth to Kyla. I carried her home from the hospital.” He stepped back, shook his head and raked a hand distractedly through his hair. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

“I’m doing this because Kyla is my child. I want to be part of her life.”

“You want to take her from a father she loves, from her home?” His words were quieter than before, and she saw the glimmerings of doubt and fear in his eyes.

“No, of course not. I want her to be happy. I know she loves you. I have no intention of taking her from you.” In spite of her efforts to be strong, she knew that her voice had lost its certainty, that Sam would sense her weakness and take advantage of it. “I just want to be a part of her life. I want her to know I’m her mother.”

He sighed and looked away from her. “If you really did have a baby, and that baby died, I’m sorry. But if you think you’re going to take Kyla, you better think again.” He turned back to her, his hazel eyes blazing. “I want this insanity ended right now. I don’t want Kyla to ever find out about you. But if you think for one minute that’s going to stop me from calling the police and having you thrown in jail, you’re dead wrong. And I’m keeping those pictures and that letter as evidence.” He moved closer, so close she could see the tiny lines around his eyes, where a smile used to live. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my daughter from you.”

He whirled away, strode into the house and slammed the door behind him.

Marcie walked stiffly back to her car, away from her daughter’s home, where she wasn’t welcome, from Sam’s cold threat, his assertion that her baby needed to be protected from her.

She’d made a mistake, coming to McAlester and looking them up. She should have made firm, sensible plans. The lawyer she consulted had suggested she let him call first. That was what she should have done. She should never have given in to her impulse and driven by the house.

Her only excuse was that she’d wanted to be certain Kyla really was her daughter before she did anything. But having an excuse didn’t change the situation. Her mother had a roomful of excuses for what she’d done, and they didn’t change a thing.

She’d taken a step in the wrong direction, and life gave no opportunities for U-turns. The road chosen, whether by deliberation, impulse or accident, had to be traveled. She’d learned that years ago.

The drive home was going to be a long one. And she doubted that even when she got there she was going to feel safe. Her carefully constructed world was crumbling.

When Marcie finally walked into her condo, exhausted to the point of collapse, the light of the answering machine sitting on the kitchen bar seemed to blink a brighter red than she remembered, an ominous, threatening shade of red.

She hesitated for a moment, wanting only to go to bed. If she pressed that button, would she hear more cruel accusations from Sam? Or had he talked to the police and they were calling to warn her away from Kyla?

She made herself cross the room to the answering machine and press the button. Every muscle in her body tensed as she waited for it to rewind and begin to play.

“It’s me, sweetheart.” Though it was better than she’d expected, nevertheless, Marcie cringed as her mother’s overly bright voice grated along her nerves, prickling like a thousand tiny daggers. “Just checking in to say hi and see if you’ve found out when I’m going to get to meet my granddaughter.”

All the tension from the day returned, and anger Marcie hadn’t known she possessed burst from its hiding place. It was all well and good for her mother to be so interested in her granddaughter since Marcie had confronted her with the letter. But if she’d been a little more interested thirteen years ago, this nightmare wouldn’t be happening. If she hadn’t schemed and conspired and lied to get rid of that granddaughter, she’d have her today. Marcie wouldn’t have had to go through the grief of thinking her child had died. Kyla wouldn’t have spent the past thirteen years living a lie with a stranger who thought he was her father. Marcie wouldn’t now be faced with battling that stranger, hurting him and her daughter and herself.

She jabbed at the button to forward to the next message, to rid herself of her mother’s voice, her interference.

“End of messages,” the machine’s computerized voice announced.

Sam hadn’t called. The police hadn’t called.

The next move was hers.

She sank onto one of the stools. It had only been a short time ago that she sat at that bar, poring over pictures of a blonde girl, afraid to hope, afraid to let herself be happy, afraid to believe this could really be her child. Now it would seem she’d found her child and lost her in a remarkably short space of time, shorter than before. She’d had nine months before she lost her last time.

Briefly she wondered whether she should take Sam’s advice, leave her daughter alone, knowing she was happy. Would that be the loving thing to do? She and her child both had lives...good lives...without each other. For almost thirteen years, each of them had been unaware of the other’s existence.

Moving woodenly, she rose and went to the refrigerator to get a glass of iced tea.

When she lifted it to her lips, the taste recalled the glass of tea Kyla had given her, the thrill of sitting on the porch, looking at and listening to the child she’d thought dead.

She sipped the drink slowly, wanting to draw out the taste, the flavor of the memories it evoked.

There was no going back. Now she knew her daughter was out there. She’d seen her, talked to her, drunk tea with her. Maybe Sam would do whatever it took to keep her from her daughter, but she’d do whatever it took to get to her. Kyla had the right to know the truth, and only Kyla had the right to order her to stay away.

She stood silently in the kitchen, running her fingers over the smooth, polished wood of the breakfast bar, looking around, trying to find the secure, content feeling her home usually gave her.

Soft silvery carpet stretched across the living room, interrupted by the muted pastels of her sofa and chairs and the rich wood of her coffee and lamp tables. When she moved in four years ago, she’d decorated with comfort and serenity in mind. Since that time, she hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t added a picture or moved a piece of furniture.

Every time she opened the door, she knew exactly what to expect.

She’d organized her entire life that way—dependable and safe.

Except suddenly that safety was slipping away.

Her home looked different, somehow. Or maybe it only felt different.

On Monday she’d go to work in the same office with the same people she saw five days a week...seven during tax season. She’d dress the same way she always dressed. She’d tie her hair back the way she always did. She’d get a cup of coffee and go to her desk and turn on her computer... and nobody would know that her whole world had changed.

Marcie crossed her living room to her bedroom, then stopped and looked back at the faint footprints in her carpet. Just walking through the room had changed it. How much more of an effect would her daughter and Sam have on her life?

It was too late. She wouldn’t go back even if she could.

But going forward was damn scary.

Sam sat in his van, elbow on the open window, directly in front of the entrance to the Little Dixie Cinema. His gaze darted back and forth as he alternately checked the door for his daughter, and every car that went past, every movement in the shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach.

He’d arrived half an hour early to wait for the movie to end, for Kyla and Rachel to come out.

That woman had him on his guard, edgy, afraid to take any chances that the girls might leave early and she or someone she’d hired might kidnap them. He’d been lucky when she returned for her pictures and letter. Kyla and Rachel had been off somewhere riding their bikes.

But he couldn’t count on that kind of luck every time.

He drummed his fingers nervously on the side of his van. Man, the crazies were everywhere, even here in this town he’d always thought of as a refuge from such things. That woman, Marcie Turner—if that was really her name—must be a loony. At first, she’d seemed normal, except for being a little shaken up over the accident. He’d even liked her—been attracted to her, as a matter of fact.

But it wasn’t normal to fixate on a kid to the point where she probably really believed that kid—his kid—was her daughter.

The whole damned thing scared him.

Losing somebody you loved could happen so fast, like a giant sword suddenly flashing down and cutting away part of your soul. Like Lisa. One day she was alive and happy, and then she was gone.

He wasn’t going to lose Kyla, certainly not to some sick woman, not after his daughter had overcome such gigantic odds to be with him in the first place. After the initial fatal diagnosis on the night she was born, subsequent tests had shown Kyla’s heart to be strong and healthy. She was a miracle.

A miracle he’d never questioned.

Before tonight.

He shivered, even as the hot, muggy evening squeezed against him. With a hand that shook slightly, he wiped perspiration from his upper lip.

Of course, miracles weren’t logical, he assured himself. That was why they were called miracles. You didn’t question them; you just accepted them and gave thanks.

The doors of the theater opened, and the Saturday-night crowd of couples and kids burst out.

When he finally spotted Kyla and Rachel, he realized he had lifted himself off the seat in his anxiety to locate them. One hand clutched the steering wheel, the other arm pressed painfully on the open window.

He forced himself to relax. He couldn’t let Kyla or Rachel see him this stressed.

Giggling and talking, the girls dashed over. Kyla yanked open the side door, and they climbed into the back.

And Sam’s heart stopped. An Oklahoma panhandle dust storm seemed to pound through his brain, obscuring reason, turning ordinary objects and people into unrecognizable, nightmare figures.

Kyla had loosened her hair from her usual ponytail, and for just a moment he saw Marcie Turner’s hair, Marcie Turner’s face, superimposed over Kyla’s. For a stark, terrifying moment, he knew why Marcie had looked so familiar. She was an older version of Kyla, right down to the small, almost unnoticeable dimple in her chin.

He faced forward, refusing to look at the frightening phenomenon, focusing instead on Kyla’s familiar voice, her familiar laughter.

“Dad, are you listening to me?”

“What? Of course I am.”

Kyla heaved a dramatic sigh. “No, you’re not. You’re still thinking about that blond babe I crashed into this afternoon, aren’t you?”

She’d called that one right.

“I guess I’m going to have to find him a girlfriend. I mean, it’s like the man’s a monk.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pick my own girlfriends.” Preferably someone sane. “At the moment, you’re the only woman I have room in my life for.” “Well, okay, but you’re not getting any younger, and I don’t know how much longer I can be responsible for taking care of you.” She and Rachel giggled at that comment.

Smiling to himself, Sam turned the key and started the van. Of course Kyla was his and Lisa’s daughter.

What was the matter with him, letting himself buy into Marcie Turner’s fantasy?

“Can we get pizza?” Kyla asked as he pulled into traffic. “That’s what I asked you when you were ignoring me. Not answering counts the same as if you’d said yes, you know.”

It was Sam’s turn to heave a dramatic sigh. “Like I ever refuse you anything. I think there may be a law against spoiling a kid as badly as you’re spoiled.”

Kyla leaned forward between the seats and gave him a loud kiss on the cheek. “I promise not to turn you in if we can have an extra large double-pepperoni pizza.”

“Oh, that’s great! My kid’s learned how to blackmail! That’ll look so good on your résumé.” He dared a glance at her impish face in the rearview mirror, searching desperately and vainly for Lisa’s features, not Marcie Turner’s.

Lisa had been a short brunette with dark hair and brown eyes. His coloring was dark, also, but blond hair and blue eyes were recessive traits. They could have sprung from some long-forgotten ancestor. Coloring didn’t prove a thing.

When Kyla was a baby, Lisa’s family had said she looked like Lisa, and his family had said she looked like him. He and Lisa had agreed that she looked like a baby, period.

Now she looked like a blond twelve-year-old, period. Not like Lisa, but not like Marcie. Okay, so Marcie Turner had the same silky hair, though the shade was a little darker, as if she didn’t get out in the sun much. So she had the same thin, straight nose, perfect oval face, wide blue eyes. None of that proved a thing. Lots of people had those traits.

Blood type. That was what mattered. With all the medical tests, he knew Kyla’s blood type. O positive, the same as Lisa’s.

His world shifted back into focus. The familiar highway, lined with stores, restaurants and gas stations, suddenly became a thing of beauty. The neon signs were works of art.

Let that woman try to take them to court. If by some fluke she succeeded, he’d explain to Kyla that Marcie Turner was a disturbed person and it would be easiest to submit to the genetic blood testing and get it over with. Prove to her that Kyla was not her daughter. Maybe then she’d go away.

He pulled into the pizza parlor parking lot. “One-super-duper giant pizza with double anchovies coming up!” he announced.

“Daaaad...” Kyla groaned.

She was growing up. A few years ago, she’d have argued with him that she hated anchovies and wanted pepperoni.

He slid out of the van and caught up with the girls as they came from the other side of the vehicle. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans, resisting an urge to hug his kid in public, an action he knew would embarrass her.

When they reached the door, he held it open with one hand, but succumbed to the urge to drape the other arm over Kyla’s shoulders as she went past him. He needed to touch her, reassure himself that she was still there.

She turned to him briefly, flashing him a quick smile.

And in the light from the pizza parlor, he saw Marcie Turner’s face, clearly and undeniably.

For a moment, he stood frozen in place, unable to move, and Kyla walked away from his embrace, from him.

He’d been kidding himself. O positive blood was the most common type. That simply meant she could be Lisa’s daughter, not that she definitely was.

Only genetic testing could prove parentage for certain.

And he’d changed his mind about allowing that He’d fight Marcie Turner to the death to prevent that test.