Page 19 of Between Here and the Horizon
I placed Linneman’s tea on the counter, and he placed down three sheets of paper on the marble, and the two of us then sat for a moment and pondered the articles in front of us. Linneman seemed as hesitant and regretful about picking up his mug as I felt about picking up my pen. Still, we both did what we had to do.
I scribbled my name in the spots Linneman had indicated with tiny, colorful tabs, while he gingerly slurped at the pale liquid inside his cup.
“Interesting,” he said under his breath, placing the cup down. “Very…warm.” I’d never made a cup of tea before; I’d clearly messed up some part of the process, but Linneman was too polite to say so.
“If you want to get off the island today, I’d make sure to call Jerry Bucksted and see if he plans on sailing that late. The storm we had yesterday was nothing compared to the one that’ll be rolling in around dinnertime. I’d best be off, Miss Lang. It was very nice to meet you, I’m sure.”
Another storm? Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed. No way I was missing that flight, though. If I had to bribe Jerry Buckwhatever to get me back to the mainland, then that was fine by me. When I saw Linneman to the door, the thunderheads were back, charging across the horizon toward us like a heard of stampeding horses. Foreboding and black, the clouds did not look promising at all.
******
“You’ll be Miss Lang, then?” The CPS representative showed up at eleveno’clock, a little later in the day than I’d anticipated. I thought she’d arrive at the house around nine, but apparently the crossing from Port Creef was already rough, and the boat had to postpone its departure for ninety minutes until a calmer patch of weather presented itself. The woman, Sheryl Lourie, according to the laminated card she showed me on the doorstep, looked so green that I was expecting her to throw up any second. Her shirt was too tight, the material straining to stretch across her considerable chest, and her pencil skirt looked way too constricting and uncomfortable for the morning she must have had, sitting on a boat while the ocean pitched and tossed.
I’d spent the morning playing dinosaurs with Amie and giving Connor some room to brood on the sofa with a book in his hands (something to do with tree houses). They had been asking where Ronan was, and both had looked beyond hopeful when the doorbell rang, immediately shouting out for their dad. Connor looked like he was about to launch his book through a window when he saw it wasn’t Ronan.
“Who isshe?” he hissed at me, as we all went and sat in the living room. “Where’s my dad?”
At that, Sheryl spun around, clutching her purse to her chest, eyes wide. “They don’t know?” she mouthed.
I shook my head.
I watched as the blood drained out of her face. “I see. Well. Why don’t we all sit down and have a little chat, then, huh?” She hadn’t been expecting to walk into this situation. No one had let her know I hadn’t explained Ronan’s death to Amie or Connor. I felt bad for the poor woman. If she’d known, she probably would have had time to acclimatize herself to the idea and figure out the best way to handle the matter. Now she had to think on the fly, and that was no good for her or for the kids.
The coward in me didn’t want to stick around for the next part. It would be easy enough to slip out and let Sheryl do the hard stuff. They were going to be leaning on her far more than they would be leaning on me soon anyway. But it wasn’t right and I knew it. I sat myself down in between Connor and Amie, taking the little girl’s hand in mine. I tried to take Connor’s, but he shunted away from me, gripping onto his book, knuckles and nail beds turned white.
“Okay, then.” Sheryl tucked her hair behind her ears and got straight to it. I had to commend her—the woman didn’t mess around. “Your daddy’s been gone for a couple of days, hasn’t he?”
Amie nodded. Connor just stared. He had a struck look on his face, his cheeks pale, his dark hair falling in wisps over his forehead and into his eyes. Blinking, he opened his book and started to read, ignoring Sheryl.
“Connor, sweetheart. Put down the book. You have to listen to what Mrs. Lourie is saying now, okay?” I tried to take it gently from him, but he snatched it away, glaring at me.
“It’s all right.” Sheryl shifted in her seat, clearing her throat. She was uncomfortable, that much was clear. “Maybe Connor can listen while he reads at the same time.”
This was a terrible idea, Connor needed to pay attention, to process the information being explained to him, but I couldn’t contradict her. Sheryl was in charge. She must have done this before, surely? I tried not to acknowledge the angry look Connor shot my way, and turned my attention to Amie. She was sitting quietly, kicking her heels lightly against the sofa, looking back and forth between Sheryl and me, her tiny eyebrows banked together with concern. She knew something was up, just as Connor did.
“So, you remember how Mommy went away last year?” Sheryl continued hesitantly. Amie sniffed and leaned her head against my arm.
“She went to heaven,” the little girl said softly. “She went to be with Oscar.”
Sheryl looked up at me sharply.Oscar? I shook my head. I had no idea.
“Oscar was our dog,” Connor murmured, head still down, eyes on the page in front of him. “He got hit by a car.”
“I see,” Sheryl said again. “Yes. So your mommy went to be with Oscar. Well, that’s where Daddy’s gone as well. To be with Mommy and Oscar. Do you know what that means?”
Connor went absolutely still. Amie made a short puffing sound, eyes traveling from me to Sheryl again. “He’s not coming back?” she whispered. “Why?”
“Because he’s dead,” Connor snapped. “He died. He left us, just likesheleft us. Iknewhe wasn’t coming back!”
“Your daddy had an accident.” Sheryl pressed on, hands clasped in her lap, twisting her wedding ring around and around her finger, nails painted a very outlandish color of burnt orange. “And that means hecan’tcome back.”
Amie’s bottom lip was wobbling. Her eyes were filling with tears of confusion, her little body shaking next to mine. She pressed herself against me, and my heart nearly cracked in two when she looked up at me and a choked sob slipped from her mouth. “I don’t want Daddy to go with Mommy,” she wailed.
Connor still hadn’t moved. “It’s tough luck, Amie. We don’t get a say in it. We don’t get a say in anything. Right?” His eyes flickered up, fixing on Sheryl. She seemed stunned by the blunt, hard words coming out of Connor’s mouth. They stunned me, too. No seven-year-old should have had such a stark outlook on life. “I’m afraid not,” Sheryl confirmed. “Sometimes these things happen to people, and no one gets a say in the matter. I know it’s hard. I know it’s sad, but—”
“It’s not sad,” Connor snarled. “He wanted to go and be with her. I know he did. I heard him say it. He told Dr. Fielding. He didn’t want to be with us anymore. He left on purpose. Ihatehim. I hate him!”
Jumping up from the sofa, Connor rocketed out of the room, his book tumbling to the floor. I tried to disentangle myself from Amie, to go after him, but Sheryl reached out and put a hand on my knee.
