Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (10 page)

“Is there a closet under the stairs?”

“No. That space is the nook in the kitchen where a small booth might fit nicely,” I said.

“I’ll need a place to put all my art supplies.”

Marissa got up and motioned for me to follow her. “Come with me.”

We went out to a garage behind her shop. “I found this at a school auction. They were renovating the building into office space and selling everything from old chalk boards to this.”

I walked toward the much-used cupboard full of nooks and crannies for paper, pencils, paints, brushes, and jars. “My art class had one just like this,” I whispered. “It’s perfect. Is it for sale?”

“It is. I’ll hold it for you. We’ll need to measure the room. In case you like to know the history of things, this came out of a small room in the Oak River elementary school basement.”

Tingles danced up and down my spine. “I can’t believe it. I went to school there. Mrs. Brewster was my teacher. I adored her.”

“Look at this,” Marissa said.

On the back, in what was once called ‘penmanship,’ were these words:
I will teach what I love—without reservation or apology. I will love those I teach and show it by offering them a place to create. I will give each student the respect and dignity children deserve, but are rarely given. They will discover both the freedom and discipline that is art. We will draw and paint joyfully.

Naomi Brewster—Oak Ridge Elementary School—1955.

As I ran my hands over the smooth top, in my mind I was already putting away art supplies.

“Marissa, this is personal,” I whispered.

“That’s exactly how it should be. When I bought this piece, I knew I had to bring it here so someone else could take it home,” she said.

“She had a matching desk; it was quarter-sawn oak.”

“Did it look like this one?” Marissa asked, pointing to the far corner.

“Yes! I’ll take them both. No matter what. If the room is too small, I’ll rent space to create somewhere else. These two pieces are part of my past and they will help me redefine my future,” I declared.

“We’ll know more once we have the dimensions, but I’ll mark them sold right now.”

Back in her shop, she said, “I have some catalogs you can borrow.”

“Those two pieces are Stickley furniture. Would that style be a good option in the rest of the house?”

“Yes. It’s got that old feel without being ornate. It’s easy to use different upholstery with it—from leather to geometrics, most anything goes.”

Claire walked in carrying a tray with three cups and a plate of what looked like blueberry scones with lemon frosting drizzled across the top.

They were delicious.

We ate and talked about colors. I wanted a vivid home, and since it was so small, I wanted each room similar enough that nothing clashed.

“What are your favorite colors?” Marissa asked, flipping crumbs on the floor for Leif.

“The colors of the Northern Lights,” I answered.

“That sounds wonderful. Is there a story behind this desire?” Marissa asked.

“There is. My friend, Mickey, loved the sky almost as much as he loved baseball. We’d go to the library where I’d check out art books, and he chose books with pictures of clouds and the night sky. One book had fantastic photographs of the Aurora borealis. I loved the deep blues, greens, purples, pinks, yellows, and sometimes orange against the black or midnight blue canvas. If I can find geometrics in those colors—or any pattern—I’d be thrilled.”

“Let me put the word out and I’ll see what I can find,” she said.

By the time I was ready to leave, I had a gift bag full of catalogs, worksheets, and what Marissa called dream sheets with lots of room for more sketches and notes.

“Can I make copies of these?” my new designer asked about my original sketches.

“Sure.”

“If you write down your e-mail, we can keep the brain storming going during the time it takes for the house to be yours.” Marissa said.

Before saying goodbye, Claire asked me, “Did you keep the original art from the book you wrote for Jillian?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I was thinking perhaps you could frame them for your new home. If I remember right, the art on those pages was full of the wonder and colors of the Northern Lights.”

“For someone who doesn’t know me very well, you seem to know me. And you have a great memory.”

She smiled and pulled me into a gentle hug. “Your art left an impression in my heart, Olivia,” she whispered.

Her affection didn’t surprise me at all, but my response to it did. I hugged her back, and it felt as natural as breathing.

The next morning, I answered my cell phone expecting a legal discussion.

“Mother Lyons is extremely ill and she’s asking to see you.” Michelle said, her voice tinged with panic. “Will you come?”

“Is this okay with Alan?”

“Yes. He said to send a car to get you so you don’t have to bother with security or the press waiting outside the building for a glimpse of you.

“When?” I asked.

“How soon can you be ready? She’s extremely anxious to see you.”

I hesitated. “Are you sure? This seems odd to me.”

“I agree. It is odd. But she said she wants to talk to you about Jillian. She will understand if you decline. I hope you won’t. Please, Olivia. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”

“Okay. When do you want me to come?”

“Does now work for you? I feel a tremendous sense of urgency.”

“Sure,” I agreed.

“Thank you. I’ll tell Lloyd and send the car to the private garage. Lloyd will escort you down.”

When the private elevator doors closed in front of us, Lloyd said, “I know things are tense between us, but I’m not your enemy, Olivia. If you ever need me, I’m here for you.” He handed me his business card, and I noticed a hand-written phone number on the back.

“That’s my personal cell number.”

“I thought your loyalties were to the Lyons family.”

“They are,” he said gruffly. “But Jillian was one of theirs and you are hers.”

I looked at him, expecting to see him watching the numbers the way people do in elevators. Instead, he was looking at me.

“You promised her?”

He nodded and said, “I did.”

“I couldn’t protect her, but she was determined to protect me. That’s not a child’s job,” I said.

Lloyd nodded. “Jillian had a gift I’ve seen in others whose time on this earth is short, but who are sure of their place in the next.

“What do you mean?”

“She knew she was leaving, was at complete peace, and had an unearthly understanding of what that would do to you. Those things are normal for the dying, but she also had the gifts of mercy and communication. That’s the one she deployed on those of us who loved her. I heard her tell one person, ‘Please be kind to my mommy.’ To others she said, ‘Please hug my mommy because she’s going to miss my hugs.’ To me she said, ‘Please protect my mommy because she’s mostly alone.’”

His kind words pierced my heart with a mix of pain and joy. Jillian’s love always did that to me.

When the elevator doors swished open, I saw the driver standing outside of an older black Cadillac—the kind with fins and chrome. “Wow. Mickey would have loved this,” I said.

“Mickey?” Lloyd asked.

“Yeah, the dead guy in the elevator.”

“You did know him?”

“Yeah, but that’s not public knowledge yet,” I said before adding for good measure, “I knew him, but I didn’t recognize him. And I didn’t kill him.”

He nodded. “Mrs. Lyons wanted you to ride in style I guess,” Lloyd said as he admired the pristine car.

Before the driver shut the door I asked, “Lloyd, are you a religious man?”

“No, I’m not. I have a simple faith like Jillian’s.”

He closed the door, leaving me alone with the weight of his words ricocheting around the empty walls of my heart.

The car was more glide than ride. It smelled of leather cleaner and pine, as if when not in use one of those cardboard air fresheners hung from the rearview mirror. The leather seats were so polished when I’d gotten in I thought if the other door had been open I’d have slid right on out.

At the entrance to the Lyons’ estate, the driver pressed a button, and the gates swung open. The mansion was so big, I expected to see Tinker Bell touch her wand on the top turret. When the driver opened the car door for me, Michelle stepped out of the big front door.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “The doctor just left. He says she has very little time. I’ll take you to her.”

I followed her up the stairs, taking in as much as I could without tripping. The house contained a lot of heavy wood trim that matched the banister under my hand. On the second floor, we passed many gilt frames with grumpy old faces in the hallway. The military blue carpet beneath my feet ran down the center of the floor, leaving a small amount of wood showing on each side.

“Olivia is here, Mother,” Michelle said as we entered a room where the centerpiece was a hospital bed. The smell of cancer shocked me. The chemical cocktail of drugs, internal decay, and a metallic scent mingled with antiseptic was so strong, I could taste it.

The woman in the bed was a withered version of the one who had visited me not long ago. Her hair had thinned, her skin yellowed, and the veins stood tall on the hand she held out to me. The large stones set into the platinum settings slid to the palm-side of her hand.

I knew each move and word required a sacrifice of energy, so I took her hands when she offered them as a welcome. When she released them, I carefully rearranged her rings so she could see them.

“I should take them off, but he gave them to me, you see.”

I nodded not understanding. The only piece of jewelry I’d ever really cared about was Ma’s bracelet and then only because it was a pretty bauble. I’d never been given a ring from a man so I couldn’t understand her emotional attachment. That’s the way it sometimes is with wannabes.

“They’re beautiful,” I said.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Michelle said before kissing the old woman’s forehead.

“Don’t go far,” Mrs. Lyons requested, her vulnerability revealed in every word.

“I won’t. I’ll be waiting on the couch at the end of the hallway.”

The old woman nodded and then focused on me.

“This isn’t my room,” she said. “Mine is through there.” I turned to look in the direction she pointed and saw a small inside hallway with a closed door at the end. “My husband rang for me when it was time for a marital visit.” A blush spread across her sunken cheeks. “As you can see he loved boats and shipping,” she said changing the subject.

Burgundy, gun-metal gray, and true navy-blue must have been his colors. Brass sailing spy-glasses and other items rested on masculine furniture. The wooden floors were partially covered in thinning Persian rugs. “It’s sort of a replica of the apartment,” I said.

She nodded and reached for my hand. I wished I could will health into her body. It hadn’t worked with Jillian, and it wasn’t working with her either.

“I am leaving this world and wanted to be where he was when he died.” The tone of her voice was a strange mix of sentiment and harshness.

“You loved him,” I said.

“At first I did, but it didn’t last. From the moment we were introduced, I knew I wasn’t his type; I was as gangly as a newborn foal and about as graceful. The only things that attracted him to me were my family’s money and political connections. With me as his wife, he could do more, be more. That was a driving force in his life. I think you’ll understand when I say I miss what I could not have.”

I nodded and said, “His son is very much like him.”

She whispered, “Yes. He is.”

After taking a deep breath she said, “I’m not here out of an act of love. What you see is an old woman in full rebellion. I can be here any time I want to now.”

“You’re sort of giving him the finger?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

She chuckled. “I am—both fingers.”

After a brief moment, I laughed out loud. She only had enough energy left for a crooked grin.

“I brought you something.” I reached into my large bag. “This was Jillian’s favorite blanket at the end of her life.” I clutched it one last time before handing it to the frail woman.

She held it to her withered cheek and started to cry. “I gave this to her. Thank you.” Her words were a raspy whisper.

“You’re welcome. I had a feeling it came from you—from someone Jillian loved very much.”

“I don’t miss him, but I miss her,” she said. “Do you think it’s strange I have no feelings left for him?”

“Was he unkind to you?” I asked.

“He was a terribly cruel man,” she said. Regaining some of her composure, she redirected our conversation. “I didn’t ask you here to reminisce about him. I want to talk to you about Jillian. But first, I’m thirsty. Can you help me?”

I poured fresh water into a crystal goblet before adding a bendable straw cut short to accommodate the ornate drinking glass.

She drank a few sips and then, winded by the activity, lay back on her pillows, reached for my hand again, and closed her eyes. Soon puffy little breaths exited her lips. I sat watching her, knowing each exhale could be her last. Not certain if it was the right thing to do or not, I tucked Jillian’s blanket around her. One frail hand gripped the same corner my daughter did in her sleep.

Steeling myself against the tenderness creeping into my heart, I decided to go find Michelle, but before I could stand, a man in nurse’s scrubs entered the room through the inside hallway.

“It’s time for her pain meds,” he whispered to me.

He checked the label on the syringe the way nurses do. At his touch, the old lady’s eyes opened.

“It’s you!” she gasped.

“It is,” he said. “I promised I’d come back.”

His words made it sound like he was one of her favorite caregivers, but the look in her eyes told another story.

“Get out!” she demanded.

“Not until I give you your injection.”

“It’s too soon. I had one just before Olivia came.”

“Mrs. Lyons, your visit will be much more pleasant when your pain is gone. With the number of prescriptions you’re on, it’s difficult to remember who gave you what and when. That’s why you have us.”

“I recognize you even in that costume. You are not a nurse, you are his. . .” The rest of her words came out in a whispered snarl I couldn’t hear as she tried to grab the IV line to pull it out.

“Would you mind helping me?” he asked softly, looking at me as she became more combative. She tried to cry out, but no sound came from her parched throat.

He handed me the syringe and I took it. He removed Velcro restraints from his pants pocket, fixed her hands to the sides of the bed, and then reached for the medication. She watched his every move, tears filling her eyes.

When he reached for the syringe, I glanced at him, and his profile seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

“Please Olivia, get Michelle!” Mrs. Lyons said, her eyes, voice and mind momentarily clear.

I went out in the hallway and found the couch was empty. I called out to Michelle, but heard no response. Afraid to go far from Mrs. Lyons, I walked to the top of the stairs and did the next best thing. I hollered. “Michelle, help!” There was silence except the gong of a clock striking the time in a room downstairs, the sound muffled by the distance.

When I returned to Mrs. Lyons’ room, she was alone, her hands no longer restrained, but fear spread tightly across her face.

“Ask Aggie. Please, ask Aggie.” She whispered. “Olivia,” her eyes suddenly shone with something else, a strange unearthly joy, and she said, “Jillian was right.”

“About what?” I whispered back.

“Everything,” she said right before she shuddered, gasped, and her body went still.

Terrified, I ran to the top of the stairs and screamed, “Michelle! Help!”

She came running from a room down the hall, followed by a female nurse. They entered the room, and then I heard the nurse say, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lyons. Your mother-in-law is gone.”

I watched from the doorway, feeling trapped. I couldn’t leave since I had no idea how to summon the driver. The nurse turned to me. “What happened?”

I told them what I could remember. Time seemed to have shifted and the moments before already seemed like distant and blurry memories.

“A male nurse?” Michelle asked. “Mother didn’t have any male nurses. She didn’t trust men other than Alan.”

The nurse pointed to the syringe lying on the bedside table. “What’s this doing here?”

“It’s the medicine he gave her,” I said.

After checking it out and looking at the chart, the nurse said to Michelle, “I gave Mrs. Lyons the pain meds she needed right before Ms. Morgan arrived, She wasn’t due for more. The label says this one is twice the prescribed dosage. There wouldn’t have been time to save her even if I’d been in the room. Nothing about this is an accident.”

The impact of her words caused me to back from the doorway. Michelle’s voice carried into the hallway as she talked to a 911 dispatcher and then to Alan.

I heard her say to her husband, “Alan, my gut tells me there’s something terribly wrong here. Olivia says there was a male nurse here and that Mother knew him. You know that’s impossible.”

She joined me in the hallway and guided me to the couch. Before she could question me, I said, “Michelle, I touched the syringe. My fingerprints will be found on it. The male nurse wore gloves.” I told her how Mrs. Lyons resisted the man and the medication. “She pulled against the restraints he used as hard as she could. I’m sure there will be bruises on her wrists.”

She returned to the body of her mother-in-law shortly before Alan raced up the stairs, past me, and into his father’s room.

A moment later I heard Alan said to Michelle, “Keep your eye on Olivia. I’m calling the police.”