Heart on a Chain (25 page)

“
I should have known, should have
guessed
,” he says miserably.

“
No you shouldn’t have, Henry. I was good at the hiding game.”

He doesn’t look convinced by this.

“
Is she in jail?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, holding his breath with dread and I know that she isn’t.

“
If she’s not in jail where she should be, if she’s still at home, I’ll have to find somewhere else to go. I can’t go back there.”

If possible, Henry looks even worse than before.

“
What is it, Henry?” I’m starting to feel afraid now at the look on his face. “Is she at home?”

Henry shakes his head, and I feel a little relief. But he still looks miserable. Now I’m afraid
and
confused.

“
Henry?”

“
Kate, there’s something you need to know. About your mom.” He blows out a resigned breath. “Kate, she’s dead.”

Chapter Eighteen

On that day
I become a murderer. She died as a result of hitting her head against the tile floor, a rare but fatal injury separating her brain from her brain stem. She’d died immediately—there would have been no saving her even if anyone had been there to try.

It explains one thing I’ve been wondering about; why my father hasn’t been to the hospital to see me. He must hate me, I think.

The police want to speak to me as soon as the doctors feel I’m able; the only thing keeping them away thus far is the fact that I’ve been unaware of her death.

With the knowledge of her death I become despondent, numb, and they bring in a psychiatrist to speak to me, the only condition being that a police psychologist is allowed to listen in.

I really don’t want to talk about it, though. I tell the police everything I remember, but I don’t want to share with a psychiatrist. I don’t want to share with anyone. Henry tries to get me to talk about it, but I can’t even look at him. I can’t imagine him wanting to be with a murderer; how will he ever look at me the same again?

I’m told there will be an investigation—there always is when a violent death occurs—but it will wait until I’m out of the hospital and feeling stronger.

I continue to improve physically, eventually getting to the point where I’m no longer attached to any machines nor have any tubes in me. I also continue my physical therapy until I can walk mostly unaided. The doctors decide I can go home and continue my therapy on an outpatient basis. This brings up a new fear—where will I go when I do leave the hospital?

Henry, Emma and even Dr. Jamison all try to convince me to come to their house, but I adamantly refuse. I will not do that to them, bring a murderer into their house, with them, and with Claire, and Amy and
Christine
.

The day before I’m to be released, my father comes to see me. I’ve just finished physical therapy and I’m tired, ready to sleep for a while when he walks in. Henry is sitting in his chair, working on homework that Emma has started to bring to him from school. They’re being more lenient with me, waiting until I’m released before they send a teacher with my own homework.

Henry looks up as he walks in, and stands.

“
Hey, Mr. Mosley,” he says to my father.

“
Hi Henry,” my father returns. I look between them, stunned. When did they meet?

Henry walks over to me, leaning down to give me a kiss.

“
I’m going to go to the cafeteria to get a drink. I’ll be back in a little bit,” he tells me. I grab his hand, imploring him with my eyes to stay. He just squeezes my hand, trying to reassure me, before turning to leave. I watch him go, panicked at being left alone with this man who is my father, but who’s more of a stranger to me than even the doctor or nurses who care for me.

He stands in the doorway, seeming as reluctant as me to see Henry go. He’s wearing a baseball cap which he removes, twisting it in his hands. I can see he’s made some effort to look presentable, wearing a button down shirt that’s wrinkled but clean, and freshly shaven—that given away by the piece of tissue that’s still stuck to his chin.

I study him, and realize that some time in the last ten years he has aged. I remember him as young and handsome, but now he looks old and ragged, gray streaking his hair, wrinkles on his face, and heavy bags under his eyes.

He clears his throat and takes a single step closer.

“
You look better,” he says.

“
You’ve been here before?” I ask, surprised.

“
I came at first, but then it didn’t seem that you would wake up and so…” he trails off, lifting a hand as if that explains his absence.

“
I’ve been awake for almost two weeks now.”

He looks away, guiltily.

“
I know,” he says, “Paul—Dr. Jamison—came by on the day you did to let me know. He offered me a ride, but I didn’t want to face you.”

Guilt nearly smothers me at his words. Of course he didn’t want to face me; I killed his wife. I nod, tears pricking my eyes as I look away.

He takes another step closer.

“
The thing is…I failed you, Kate.”

I look at him, staggered by his words.
He
failed
me
?

He shakes his head, stepping closer and I can see he’s struggling with his own emotions.

“
I could stand here and say I didn’t know, but…” he releases a heavy breath, and even from where I lay I can smell the alcohol; not strong, but there nonetheless. “I think I did. I guess I
know
I did. I just didn’t know how bad it was.” He glances at me to gauge my reaction. I’m open-mouthed. Is he saying he knew of the abuse? That he’s known all along?

“
I didn’t know she would hurt you so badly.” A sob escapes him, which he sucks back in. “I swear I didn’t know
that
.”

“
I killed her,” I tell him, wanting him to hate me.

“
I know. It was self defense though, right? I think that she wouldn’t have stopped. If you had seen yourself—” he breaks off at some memory that crumples his face. I turn away, not sure how to deal with this stranger who suddenly is giving off some mixed-signal paternal indications.

“
They told me there might be a trial,” I tell him. He nods, moving another step closer so that he’s only a few feet from my bed now.

“
They said you can come home tomorrow,” he abruptly changes the subject.

“
Can I?” I ask, and he looks questioningly at me. “Can I come home, I mean?”

Realization clears his face, then his mouth turns down.

“
Of course you can. It’s your home. Where else would you go?”

I think of Henry’s home, of the life and laughter and
light
that is there, of the love and care and comfort I know I’ll get if I go there. I think of my own house, how dark and dismal and lifeless it is in comparison.

That’s where I belong.

“
Will you come pick me up, or…?”

He looks away, guilty again.

“
I came in tonight to sign the papers. They said you could ride home with Henry.”

I feel a catch in my throat. So, he hasn’t come to see me after all, has just come to sign the papers pushing responsibility for me off on someone else. Things are back to normal, at least where he’s concerned.

Henry comes back then, and the tension leaves the room at his appearance. He’s carrying his drink, eyes on me to determine if I’m upset or not. I am, but try not to show it.

“
So, I guess I’ll go now,” my father says. “You’ll bring her home tomorrow then, Henry?”

“
Of course. I’ll stay with her until you get home. I think my mom was planning to bring some dinner over.”

My father nods.

“
That’s nice of her. Tell her I said thanks.”

“
Sure thing, Mr. Mosley.” Henry, ever the gentleman is being polite, but I know him well enough that I can hear the tension below the surface.

“
Well, goodbye then,” he says to Henry, looks toward me with a nod, and leaves. We both watch him go.

“
You didn’t tell me he had been here,” I say to him.

“
You didn’t ask.” I throw a condemning look his way and he shrugs, sipping his drink and setting it on the table next to my bed. He sits on the edge of my bed, stroking up and down my arm with his hand.

“
I thought it might upset you. I wasn’t sure if he was part of the…” he grimaces painfully, then forces the word between his teeth, “…
abuse
that you were being subjected to.”

I gasp. “You thought he was abusing me also, but you left me here alone with him?”

“
No, I don’t think that; not anymore. But to be honest, I was outside your room the whole time, watching.” He smirks with charming guilt. “I asked one of the candy stripers to go grab me a drink.”

I smile, then recall his words.

“
Why don’t you think that anymore? That he was part of it?” I ask.

“
Because I watched his face when he was here. He cried a lot and seemed really guilty, but not the kind of guilt that someone who was capable of this would have.” He glances up at me. “Am I wrong?”

“
No.”

“
But he didn’t stop it from happening either, did he?” His voice is low with controlled fury.

“
No.” My eyes fill with tears again and I wipe them angrily away.

“
I would have. I would have found a way to stop it.” His eyes are boring into mine, intent clear as he speaks. “If I had known….” He looks down. “I
should
have known. I should have seen—”

“
Don’t,” I tell him stiffly. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this something for you to be guilty about. That is
not
what it is.”

He looks back up at me, torment in every line of his face.

“
I can’t stop thinking of it. I can’t stop imagining what it must have been like for you, every day. All that time I thought you didn’t want me to come to your house because you were embarrassed by it, or by your parents, or even by me. It
never
crossed my mind that it could be
this
.”

“
Henry…” the tears are running down my cheeks now.

“
When you came to my house on Thanksgiving…I thought…someone else…but I didn’t think it was your
mother
.” His head drops next to my arm on the bed.

“
Henry,” I pull his face up. “Of course you couldn’t imagine it. Look at
your
mother.” Guilt flashes through his eyes again.

“
No!” I tell him. “You are
not
going to feel guilty for having a great family.”

“
But I brought you home, waved them in front of your face when all the time you had to go home to face…
that
.”