My new bodyguards. According to a text sent to Mike, they’d searched the house thoroughly ten minutes before I arrived.
Jesse Milligan was a Clairmont boy back from war, a twenty-one-year-old sniper who lost half his left leg in Iraq and wore a prosthetic from his knee down. He’d spent eight months recuperating in Brooke Army Medical Center before applying to the Clairmont police force. Mike said he picked Jesse to watch over me because he was, in random order of importance: a crack shot, the best at taking a direct order, and a trained soldier who would die to save me. Apparently, this Jesse plan was hatched well before our lunch today at Bubba’s. The only thing Mike told me about the dog was that Jesse refused to go anywhere without him.
As I stepped out of the car, my body felt like I was carrying fifteen babies instead of one. All I wanted to do was sink into my bed and pull the lucky quilt up to my chin. I definitely wasn’t ready for an official meet and greet with my new bodyguards. I tossed Jesse an offhand wave and stepped quickly toward the back door, glancing around for anything out of the ordinary. The garden hose was still curled up like a snake. No new footprints in the mud. A hedge trimmer droned on the next street over.
The back door was locked, exactly as I had left it, the new alarm system blinking as cheerfully as Christmas. I punched in my mother’s birthday, thinking it was really not a good idea that I now missed my mother every time I entered the house. I set my purse on the kitchen table, opened the cabinet under the sink, and reached behind a box of Cascade for the case that held my gun. The.22 was a present from Mike for my twenty-ninth birthday, along with ten lessons at a Westchester shooting range, the only place I’d ever fired it. As far as Mike knew, this gun was still packed in a moving box.
It felt cold, and smooth. I placed my finger on the trigger, and carried the gun to the front door. Locked. I inched down the hall to the bedroom, throwing open the closets, checking under the beds twice, wondering if obsessive compulsive disorder was taking root in the wild garden with all my other disorders.
“I have a gun!” I yelled stupidly into the air. I felt mad and not mad, like Hamlet. After all, my husband, a seasoned veteran of horror, had informed me over a barbecue sandwich that his skin was crawling. A soldier, trained in stealth, was sitting right outside.
I flipped on the light in the dark bathroom. My damp towel was still crumpled on the floor, my makeup scattered across the shelf over the sink. I ripped down the straggly piece of wallpaper that I’d picked at, leaving a jagged scar on the wall, revealing more sweet little girls in bonnets.
There wasn’t a single part of me that wanted to venture farther down the hall to survey the sunroom. But I wanted complete assurance more. What if Jesse hadn’t checked, just like the police the other day? I didn’t have good feelings about that room. A few days ago, I had asked Mike to rig a chain lock on this side of the sunroom door, the side that faced into the hall. Mrs. Drury had the right idea. We just feared different things from behind the door. She believed in ghosts. I believed in windows that gave up a perfect view of me, in evil flesh and blood fingers that could lift up those old, rusty latches.
It was a silly request with everything on Mike’s mind and the thousands of dollars he’d just spent on home security. I turned the corner cautiously. Surprise. I was staring at a gleaming, industrial-looking brass door bolt that belonged on the back of a motel room door in case an angry pimp came to call. Latched tight. Not overkill as far as I was concerned. When did Mike do this?
My breathing eased. Red eyes blinked at me from the ceiling, from the doors, from the windowsills. I headed to my bed, carefully rested the.22 on the bedside table, pointed away, plopped down, kicked off my shoes. The baby rolled over inside his cocoon, which was sweet, sweet relief, because he hadn’t budged for the last five hours. The books say these patches of stillness are nothing to worry about, but tell that to any warhorse of miscarriages.
I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket to silence it during my nap.
As if protesting, it buzzed, tickling my palm.
It buzzed again, setting off a chain reaction shiver.
RESTRICTED.
He’d never called on my cell phone.
My hands started to shake. It took three tries to slide the bar over to answer.
“Hello.” I kept my voice as even as possible, and my eyes on the gun. I imagined that dog outside digging his teeth into my stalker’s face, disfiguring him, so everyone would always know on sight that this was a monster.
“Hi, Emily? You sound far away. It’s Renata.”
28
Twenty seconds into my conversation with Renata Tadynski I realized I liked her, a lot.
“Thank you so much for calling me back.” My voice was fused with relief.
“Why wouldn’t I? I worked through that period of my life years ago. So what’s up?”
“Do you remember me?”
“Yes. The pretty Catholic girl who sat beside me that day pretending to read The Cider House Rules. I was kind of mixed on the whole abortion thing at the time. You brought me some water when I felt a little dizzy. You told me everything was going to be OK.”
“How did you know I was Catholic?”
“You mouthed along with me to the Prayer of Saint Michael as I worked the hell out of those rosary beads. My grandmother gave them to me at my first holy communion. She loved that prayer.”
She began to recite in a melodic, practiced voice.
“Saint Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle; be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.”
My eyes closed. My chin dropped. I fell into the river of her words.
“May God rebuke him, we humbly pray. And do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through this world seeking the ruin of souls.
“Amen,” she said.
“Amen,” I echoed. It was this kind of mystical moment that always overruled any of my doubts about believing in God. He showed up. He spoke through strangers. If only the holy rollers didn’t give these experiences such a bad name.
I knew in a flash of certainty that Renata never exacted revenge on Pierce. She’d left that to a higher power.
“You’re a nun.” I just knew.
“You can tell? Not sure if that’s good or bad. Eleven years this January. Saved my sanity, literally. I help kids who have suffered more than I could ever imagine. And they help by letting me.”
She paused. “You didn’t call for my sappy life story.”
No, but it was somewhat comforting to hear. I broke out the little speech I’d rehearsed in my head.
“I’ve received some strange letters over the years. Hateful ones. I always thought they were from Pierce’s mother. But recently I received a package in the mail. The campus police report from the night Pierce Martin… raped me. Nothing else. Just that report. I’d never seen it. I’d never told many people about Pierce. Even my husband. I just wondered if, well, if I was the only one.”
“That’s weird. How scary for you, Emily. I’ve never received any letters. But I didn’t report anything officially on… my rape. My current address and phone number aren’t listed. Someone has to go through the church to get to me unless they call my cell phone. And I only give that out to parents, a few students I worry about, and select friends and relatives.”
“I have to ask, why are you still talking to Brad? A reporter?” It came out a little accusing.
“Because he’s much more than that. He saved my life. I was an hour away from killing myself after the episode with the police. I’d planned it. Bought the rope. Brad called for a quote while I sat on my dorm bed with a pair of scissors in my hand, figuring how many feet I needed. He could hear something in my voice, called my parents, biked over, and stayed with me until they got there nine hours later. He never got his quote.”