Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Three things happen in quick succession: The chef murmurs an apology, then hurries out the front door, still holding the glass measuring cup.

Then Ian reaches for Beth's arm, which she wrenches away before he can touch her. "You need to calm down!" he demands.

And I hear a slight creaking sound, like metal gears moving, just before a panel slides open behind me.

I spin around and see a gray-haired, sixty-something woman leaning on a cane as she limps out of an elevator that was concealed by a kitchen panel I'd assumed led to a pantry.

"Ian! I was just coming up to listen to Rose play. Why is everyone yelling? What did you do?"

There's no resemblance—Harriet is short and a bit heavyset, with plain features—but her familiar tone tells me she can only be Ian's mother.

Ian bristles. "Why do you always assume it's me? I didn't do anything. Beth's the one—"

"Oh, I'm the one?" Beth whirls on him. " I'm the one who destroyed everything?"

Harriet's face falls. At first I think she's going to apologize for fanning the flames; then I realize she's looking down the hallway, to the sight of Rose standing alone.

Rose looks so tiny and vulnerable.

"Maybe you should have this discussion out of earshot of your daughter," Harriet whispers.

She's right: Rose's eyes are downcast, and her body is straight and unyielding. I can almost feel the anxiety radiating off her.

Harriet makes her way down the long hall to Rose, her cane tapping the floor with every other step.

"Rose, I'm sorry your lesson was interrupted. Do you want to keep playing?"

Rose doesn't answer. Her grandmother puts her hand on Rose's shoulder. "It's okay, sweetie. I promise everything will be okay."

My chest twists. I'm unable to get enough air. Rose is so innocent, and so utterly alone. This is too much for her, I think. Witnessing a death and having her family fall apart—it's too much for any child.

I'm starting to hyperventilate. The walls feel like they're closing in, suffocating me.

My vision swims as my mind spins backward, reeling me thirty years into the past again, taking me to the place I dread most, the night of my mother's death: I'm seven years old, peering out from the closet by the front door, my right foot full of pins and needles because I spent all night curled in a cramped position. The room is dim and still. There's a shape on the floor. A person. Electricity sparks up my leg as my foot touches the ground. I draw closer to the inert form. My voice, high and scared, calling for her for the final time: "Mommy!"

My lungs are so pinched it's hard to breathe. I need to get out, to run away from this creepy, suffocating house as fast as I can. I'll tell Charles it's too much for me. Another attorney can take over. I take a step forward into the hallway.

Then my blurry vision clears and I see Rose standing in my path.

She's so still. It's as if she's made of plastic, just like everything else in this house.

She looks like she doesn't feel emotions. But I know she feels too much.

Rose is the most vulnerable thing I've ever seen.

The tightness in my chest eases a bit. I relax my shoulders, breathe into my belly. All the tricks a therapist once taught me.

I watch as Harriet takes Rose's hand, speaking gently to her. "Let's go out onto your swing. A little fresh air will feel good, won't it? You can finish your lesson another time."

Harriet leads Rose toward the sliding doors in the back of the kitchen. Toward us.

"After you swing, maybe we can do an art project," Beth tells Rose as she passes.

"And tonight you and I can watch a movie—anything you want," Ian calls after her.

Rose doesn't acknowledge either of them.

I slide my purse strap off my shoulder and set it down on the kitchen counter. Physically I'm still weak and shaky after my near panic attack. But my mental resolve is strengthened.

When Rose was standing in the hallway, listening to her parents argue, she reminded me of a fawn in the woods that freezes when danger is near.

I know what it's like when the person who is supposed to protect you is the one who scares you the most.

Whatever I need to go through to help Rose is nothing compared to what she is now enduring.

I turn and face Ian and Beth. They look shamefaced.

I can never forget one of them may be a killer.

"Look, I'm sorry about all that." Ian exhales loudly. "My mother's a good person. But she blames me for—well, for what happened with Tina and how it ruined everything." He hangs his head. "She's right."

"Harriet moved in for a couple of weeks after she had knee surgery." Beth's mouth tightens. "That was four years ago."

"You said you wanted her to stay—"

"I did, at first." Beth seems to wrestle with her emotions. When she speaks again, her voice has lost its raw edge. She's smooth and in control again.

"Ian's mother is a good person. She raised Ian alone after his father left them. She cleaned houses to make ends meet. She worked so hard all her life and never complained."

"We asked her to move in because she lived in a fourth-floor apartment that didn't have an elevator," Ian continues. "It was painful to watch her limp up and down those stairs with her cane. We've got this huge house with all these empty bedrooms—"

"And Harriet is wonderful with Rose," Beth picks up.

"She's a much softer grandmother than she was a mother," Ian agrees. "And Mom doesn't intrude in our lives. She has the whole lower level with a kitchen and living room, and she spends a lot of time there or tending her garden. She joins us for dinner several times a week, but that's it."

I'm struck by the way Beth and Ian seamlessly pass the conversation baton, the way many married couples do. Breaking old patterns is difficult, as I know too well. I still only sleep on the left side of the bed, as if I'm keeping the other half free for Marco.

"My mother is also homeschooling Rose," Ian continues. "Rose is taking a leave from school."

"Excuse me." The piano teacher is standing in the hallway now, occupying the spot Rose just vacated, holding a black music case with silver hinges. He's so thin he looks concave. His pallor is alarmingly colorless, and I wonder if he is ill. His voice is discordant with his physique; he has the deep, powerful voice of a much more robust man.

"Would you like to reschedule?"

"Phillip, I'm sorry. Yes, please. Add this session to your bill, of course."

The piano teacher nods so deeply it almost looks like a half bow. "I'll see myself out."

I shift slightly so that I can keep an eye on Rose and Harriet walking toward the swing, but still look at Beth and Ian.

"I understand you've developed a phobia of glass," I say.

Beth nods, her mouth a trembling, tight line.

Ian steps closer to Beth, murmuring, "The impact from the fall was what killed Tina, but the window glass… When it broke, it was as sharp as a knife and it cut her. Beth can't stand to be close to anything that reminds her of the way Tina died."

His eyes stay fixed on mine. He doesn't move or blink.

Then a sudden movement catches my attention.

Rose is running toward the field where the horses are grazing, her fiery red hair streaming out behind her.

Harriet leans on her cane, looking after her granddaughter.

"Where is Rose going?" I ask.

Beth turns around. "To see Sugar and Tabasco. The mares. They soothe her."

When Rose reaches the gray dappled horse, she throws her arms around her leg. The horse stands still, letting Rose hug her.

"Animals are the only things that seem to make her happy these days," Ian murmurs.

And with those words, he gives me a key to reaching my young client.