How many times had she stood here like this, thinking these same thoughts? More than she could count after the stroke and before she met Jake. Only a couple since he’d come into her life, the one good thing that had made living bearable the past few months. Somebody she could lean on, take strength from; somebody to drive away the loneliness and despair for short periods; somebody she cared about beside Bobby, at a time when she believed she would never care about anyone else again. If it hadn’t been for Jake and Bobby, she would have mixed the Xanax and Vicodin and wine cocktail by now. And the rest of her would be as dead as the left side of her face.
The depression was bad tonight, as bleak and overpowering as it had ever been. Worrying about that bitch Francine hurting Bobby again, really hurting him, putting him in the hospital, putting him in a coffin… it was maddening because there was nothing Bryn could do short of giving in to her impulses and destroying the woman. Running away with Bobby to some place where he’d be safe wasn’t an option. She didn’t have enough money to travel very far or hide for very long; wherever she and Bobby went, Robert had the money and the resources to find them. And then he’d make sure she never saw her son again.
Jake was doing everything he could-he’d already found out that Francine had a probable history of abuse with her two sisters-but it wasn’t enough. The sister in Berkeley had mental problems and wouldn’t talk about the abuse; the sister in Ojai wouldn’t, either. How could they expose Francine for what she was before she hurt Bobby so badly that his father could no longer deny the truth? All Robert could or wanted to see now was that falsely sweet young face.
Still, Jake was the only hope she had. Keep the faith in him, pray for Bobby’s safety… otherwise, the despair would consume her. And then she really would mix and swallow that last cocktail.
Bryn put the Xanax back into the medicine cabinet, turned away from the mirror. Her hands and face were sweaty; she dried them on a towel, then retied the scarf over the dead half. Even when she was alone in the house, she’d taken to hiding it behind cloth. Out of sight, out of mind-that was the idea, anyway, even if it didn’t always work.
In the kitchen she poured another glass of wine. How many did this make today? She’d lost count. But it would have to be the last. She had to walk a fine line with alcohol. Just enough took the edge off her anxiety, allowed her to continue functioning; too much made the depression worse.
She lifted the glass, then set it down again. She really didn’t need another drink-she’d had too much already. The last glass was what had led her into the bathroom, to remove the scarf and stand there wallowing in her misery. Already there was a dull ache in her temples and her mouth was dry and sour tasting; any more alcohol and she’d suffer for it in the morning.
She took a small funnel out of the utility drawer, poured the wine back into the bottle, and returned the bottle to the fridge. The house held an empty kind of silence, broken only by an occasional settling creak and the humming and rattling of the wind outside. She’d had a CD of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance playing earlier, spritely music in an effort to ward off the demons, but it had run through and stopped. She thought about starting it again, decided she was no longer in the mood for comic opera. Another CD? Something on television? They didn’t appeal, either.
What she really wanted was to talk to Bobby, make sure he was all right. But she’d called last night and Robert had grudgingly let her talk to him and he seemed okay then, if still quiet and distant. She couldn’t keep calling every night. Robert would refuse to put the boy on, harrangue her about bothering him at home, and then hang up; he’d done that before. And if she called and he wasn’t home and Francine answered, the bitch would hang up right away. That had happened before, too.
Would Robert let her know immediately if anything serious happened to Bobby? He might, and he might not. She might not know about it for hours, even days…
“Stop,” she said aloud. “Stop, stop.”
She went down the hall into her office, booted up her Mac, and opened the Hardiman file. Her current project-designing an extensive new Web site for Hardiman Industries. It was half-finished, the graphics satisfactory so far, but she hadn’t been able to work steadily on it for days. The deadline was looming; she’d have to get back to it soon or risk losing the commission. Now? Not now. Her thoughts were muzzy and the color images blurred as she stared at the screen. Tomorrow morning…
And the rest of tonight?
It was too early for bed. Maybe she could do a little more work on one of the three unfinished watercolor paintings… Bad idea, for the same reason she couldn’t concentrate on the Hardiman Web site design. Her headache had worsened; she felt a little sick to her stomach.
Warm bath, she thought, that might help. In the bathroom again she drank a glass of Alka-Seltzer to relieve the queasy feeling. She was leaning into the tub to turn on the water taps when the doorbell rang.
Jake? He usually called before he came over… unless he had something new and important to tell her. She hurried out to the front door, unlocked it, and pulled it open without first looking through the peephole. And sucked in her breath and felt her body go rigid because it wasn’t Jake standing there in the glow of the porch light.
“Hello, Bryn,” Francine Whalen said through one of her bright, empty smiles.
“… What do you want here?”
“It’s about Bobby. Can I come in? I won’t stay long.”
“What about Bobby? Where is he?”
“Home with his father.”
“Is he all right?”
“Of course he’s all right. Well? Are you going to let me in?”
Reluctantly Bryn complied. Once Francine was inside with the door closed, the smile disappeared. She had a longish, narrow face framed by long, feathery blond hair-an expensive designer cut to go with the expensive leather jacket and tight slacks and Gucci boots she wore. All paid for by Robert, no doubt. Her eyes were her most striking feature, large gray eyes with irises so pale they were almost translucent. The kind that men would find warm and smoky, that to Bryn gave the exact opposite effect. Ice eyes.
“The reason I’m here,” the woman said, “is to tell you straight to your face-stop trying to turn Bobby against me.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Filling his head with nonsense, trying to convince him that I’m some sort of wicked witch.”
“That’s just what you are.”
“Oh? So now you admit that’s what you’ve been doing.”
“You’re the one who turned him against you, not me. And we both know the reason.”
“Yes? What reason?”
“You’ve been hitting him, hurting him. A little boy, for God’s sake.”
“That’s a damn lie,” Francine said. But nothing changed in her expression; no shock or surprise or outrage. The face of unrepentant guilt. “Why would I do something like that?”
“Yes, exactly. Why? Why did you fracture his arm? Why do you leave bruises all over his body?”
“I did no such things. He gets into fights with other boys his age and he’s accident-prone.”
“Like hell. You, you’re the one.”