The Treasure Box (19 page)

Cathleen shrugged. “The only thing I remember clearly was the front windows shattering. Upstairs, in our flat.”

“And Derrick was killed.”

“He was down here at dinner. Everybody downstairs was killed.” Cathleen turned and looked toward the back of the room, where Grace still slept on her pallet. “They shot up the second floor just for good measure. Two bullets hit me—one in the shoulder and one in the knee. The first one went all the way through; the second one Grace removed after she found me. I suppose I kept hidden; I don't recall. I do remember falling.” She raised a hand to her face and traced the puckered scar that ran down the length of her cheek. “I may have struck something when I went down, or been hit by flying glass.”

Rachel bit back tears—not only at the account of her sister's ordeal, but at the matter-of-fact way Cathleen spoke about it.

“But you survived.”

“Grace says it's a miracle.” Cathleen frowned. “I'm not so certain of that myself.” She drilled her forefinger viciously into a hole in the sofa—a perfectly round hole, Rachel noted for the first time, a hole that might have been left by a stray bullet.

“And you never spoke about it—even to Grace?” Rachel fixed her eyes on Cathleen's finger as it ground into the bullet hole.

“When I first came to, I was out of my skull with the pain,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Even talking—or attempting to—hurt. Then, as my body healed, I couldn't bear to think about what had happened, and—” She cleared her throat. “After a while, it just seemed easier to keep silent.”

Cathleen laid her head back against the sofa. Clearly, talking had depleted her, and Rachel felt the exhaustion in her own body as well. For a while neither of them spoke. They sat side by side, staring into the fire until finally Cathleen's voice broke the silence.

“Rachel, I'm—I'm sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

Without looking at her, Rachel reached out and patted her sister's hand. “It's all right. I understand.”

“It's not all right, and you do not understand!” Cathleen snatched her hand away and lurched awkwardly to her feet.

“Rachel, look at me. Perhaps I deserve what I've gotten, to be living this way—” She waved a hand to indicate the darkened room. “Whatever I may have suffered doesn't begin to make amends for what I did to you. I may not deserve your forgiveness, but—” She sank back onto the sofa. “But I don't want your pity.”

The barb hit home, and Rachel closed her eyes against the sting of truth. She did pity Cathleen, but she had not even begun to forgive her. The anger she had harbored for so long had instead melted into a righteous condescension, allowing her to feel noble and compassionate toward her sister without really facing the hard work of forgiveness.

“All my life, I've been jealous of you,” Cathleen said in a more subdued tone. “Even when we were children, I envied your friendship with Sophie. I wanted someone to love me that much. It was my fault she died—that prank I pulled with the Treasure Box.

But even knowing that, I wasn't sorry she was gone. I wanted something like the Treasure Box, something of my own—something I could look at and say, ‘This is a sign that someone really cares for me.' But I never could manage to find it—not in friendship, not even in romance. The next best thing for me was to take what you had.”

A soul-deep weariness washed over Rachel as Cathleen was speaking—not just the exhaustion of being awake in the early hours of the morning, but the fatigue that comes with months, even years, of carrying a heavy burden. For over a decade, she had blamed her sister for Sophie's death, and for so many other things that had caused enmity between them. But Cathleen hadn't forced Sophie to go into the river when Rachel had fallen. Cathleen hadn't forced Derrick to abandon her. Cathleen wouldn't have even known where the Treasure Box and Rachel's money were hidden if Derrick hadn't told her.

Cathleen had changed. In more than twenty years, Rachel had never once heard her sister say, “I'm sorry.” Now she was not only apologizing, but taking responsibility for what she had done to hurt others. Perhaps the bitter disappointments she had faced had brought her to an understanding of other people's pain. Or maybe she simply needed to unburden herself, to confess and find a measure of absolution. Whatever her motives, it hardly mattered anymore. What mattered was that she had asked a question, a question that still hung unanswered between them:
Will you forgive me?

Her sister had already faced the truth—now it was time for Rachel to do the same. Time for her to acknowledge the pain Cathleen had caused and release it. Time for her to stop mouthing facile platitudes and speak the words that would liberate her from the bondage of anger and vengeance. She needed to forgive, not for the sake of Cathleen's freedom, but her own.

She never got the chance.

When she turned back toward Cathleen, Rachel found her sister doubled up in silent agony, her arms clutched around her stomach. Her cheeks had gone pale, and the ugly puckered scar stood out vividly against the ashen skin. Despite the chilliness of the room, a sheen of sweat covered her face. On the seat between them, something warm and wet oozed into the fabric of the sofa.

“The baby!” Cathleen gasped, reaching a hand toward Rachel.

“But it's not time. Didn't you say—”

“Whether it's time or not, this baby is coming.”

Vita stared at the screen while dawn crept over the horizon and pierced through the high privet hedge, painting the sunroom in watercolor hues of pink and gold. Memories layered one upon the other like transparencies. Scenes from the past: Hattie Parker's scarred face turning away for the last time. Rain pounding against the raw mound of earth at Mama's grave. Gordon's voice on the telephone, telling her that Mary Kate was in labor and was asking for her to come.

And other, more recent memories: Sophie lying in the shallows of the river. The weeping willow tree in the back garden, draping its branches over the wall. The little brown bird nesting in the hedge. Red wine flowing across a white linen tablecloth.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut off the images, but they wouldn't go away. They pressed into her brain as if etched there with acid. Even more images came. Hap Reardon's laugh. Jacob Stillwater in his workshop. The strange dark man in Pastimes. The Treasure Box, with its delicately painted maps and the little smiling dragon in the waters.

Then Cathleen's voice came through the computer speakers again, screaming, and Vita opened her eyes.

“Bring all the candles over here,” Grace ordered, taking command of the situation. “We'll need as much light as we can get. And in that crate next to my bed you'll find some clean towels and a pair of scissors.”

At Rachel's questioning look, she gave a little shrug and a grin. “I found them in Angelo's bathroom. I knew we'd need them eventually.”

Rachel ran for the crate and came back with the towels.

“Just take it easy, deary,” Grace was saying. “Breathe—that's it, deep, relaxing breaths. First babies sometimes take a while in getting here. You're going to be fine.”

Grace had dragged Cathleen's pallet over next to the fire, and Cathleen lay with a rolled-up blanket under her head. Another contraction came, and another shriek.

Rachel stifled down a rush of panic. “Shouldn't we—call someone?”

“Go outside and see if anyone's about. A policeman, maybe.”

Pulling on her coat and boots, Rachel limped down the long dark hall. She fumbled with the latch and finally managed to get the door open and the crate pushed aside. At last she stepped out into the alley.

The city was silent as a tomb.

Snow was falling thick and fast. The drifts came almost to her knees. Even the rats were gone, taking cover from the storm.

Clutching the red coat around her, Rachel waded through the snow down the alley, around the corner, and out into the street. It was still dark, but the reflection of the snow provided enough illumination for her to see a little. The abandoned streetcar was now only a huge gray lump in the center of the intersection. Beyond that, half a block in either direction, all was a blur of bluish white.

“Help!” she called, her voice dissipating on the wind.

“Someone please, help!”

No answer. No movement.

“Help!” Rachel screamed again, but only a muffled echo came back to her. Tears stung her eyes and froze on her cheeks before they fell. And then, like a miracle, she saw something: a faint, dusky figure, immensely large. She ran, limping, in its direction.

“Help! Please, help!”

At last it materialized out of the dark and the storm—a horse and rider, both covered with a thick layer of wet snow. A man in a dark blue coat and cap, with some kind of medallion on his chest. A mounted policeman.

“You ought not to be out in this weather, ma'am,” he said, looking down on her from a great height. The horse snorted and stamped, and Rachel backed up a step or two. “Are you lost?”

Rachel shook her head. “No, I—” She gasped for breath. “We need help. Come on, Constable, please!”

She retreated into the alley, and the man followed. When she got to the back door of Benedetti's restaurant, opened it, and indicated he should enter, he just sat there astride his mount, scratching his head. “Well, I never—”

“This way! Hurry!” Rachel practically dragged him down from the horse and pushed him through the doorway. Once inside, she took his gloved hand and led him forward until they stood in the back room, illuminated by fire and candlelight, where Grace knelt between Cathleen's legs.

The policeman took one quick look around the room. He shook off the snow, shed his coat and gloves, and knelt beside Grace.

“You know anything about midwifing?” she asked curtly.

“A little.” He shook his head and grinned up at Rachel.

“Delivered a few calves, at least, back on the farm when I was a lad.”

Rachel could see him more clearly now—a young man, not more than a year or two older than herself. He was clean-shaven, with a ruddy Irish complexion and sandy red hair. She wondered what good he'd be in a situation like this, but she kept quiet.

“I'm Michael,” he said, hunkering down to get a better view of what was transpiring with Cathleen. “Michael McCall.”

Grace grunted. “I'm Grace. The mother here is Cathleen, and the one who brought you in is her sister Rachel.”

“And you're all
living
here? But that's against the—”

Cathleen let out a moan, and Grace lifted her head and stared at him as if he were the stupidest boy on the face of the earth. “I reckon arresting us will have to wait. We've got more important business on our hands right now.”

An hour passed. Then two. Then three. Rachel lost all track of time as her sister's labor continued, stretching through the night and on toward dawn. She paced around the room, bathed Cathleen's face with a cold compress, fed her sips of water from a spoon.

Then, finally, when it seemed Cathleen could bear no more, the contractions quickened.

“Looks like this wee one has decided to come into the world after all,” Michael said. He focused his attention on Cathleen.

“It's all right, lass. You'll be just fine. The most natural thing in the—” He stopped suddenly, and his rosy face went white.

“What's wrong?” Rachel stepped closer.

“She's bleeding. I'll need an extra pair of hands.”

“She won't die—promise me she won't die.” Rachel heard her voice jump an octave, and she fought for control. “I can't lose her, not now—”

“Come down here,” Michael said. “I need help.”

Rachel's stomach shifted. “No, I can't, I—”

“Yes you can, deary.” Grace's voice was gentle, entreating.

“Come on, now.”

Rachel took a deep breath and awkwardly lowered herself to the floor beside Michael. Grace moved up to Cathleen's head and held onto her hand.

“Cathleen, try not to push until I tell you,” Michael said.

In place between Cathleen's knees, Rachel took in a deep breath, but the stench filled her lungs and nearly made her gag.

Whoever had come up with this method of reproduction clearly hadn't thought the matter through very carefully. She had often heard women talk about the miracle of childbirth, and wondered briefly how anyone could claim this barbarism as a miracle. It was a nasty, bloody, horrible mess.

Then her heart began to pound, and she forgot all about the mess. “I can see it! It's coming! I see its head!”

Michael leaned over her. “Let me look. Yes! Push, now,” he coaxed Cathleen. “When the next contraction comes, push hard!”

Cathleen pushed. A cry emanated from the depths of her soul, a horrible, agonizing, primal scream. The next moment, something small and slippery slid out into Rachel's hands.

“Hand me a towel.” Michael's voice was terse, clipped. He took the baby from Rachel, wiped its face and cleared out its mouth, then upended it and smacked its bottom soundly. There was a hiccup, followed by a hearty, indignant wail—the loveliest music Rachel had ever heard in her entire life. This
was
a miracle.

A bloody, barbaric miracle, but a miracle nevertheless.

“A girl.” Michael wrapped the baby in a clean towel and laid the wrinkled, purplish infant, still attached by the umbilical cord, on Cathleen's chest.

In an instant Rachel was at her sister's side, pushing the matted hair away from her eyes, stroking her face, feeling the long puckered scar underneath her fingertips. “She's beautiful, Cathleen.” Rachel battled against the rising tide of tears. “Beautiful. Just like you.”

Cathleen opened her eyes and tried to speak, but her mouth twisted in a grimace instead. “It hurts—”

“Of course it hurts, deary,” Grace soothed. “But it'll soon be better, you'll see. And this little one here will all be worth it.”