Nightchild--The SeriesBook 1--Falling

Chapter 4

"Nathan, what on earth's happened to you? Oh, Honey, I was so worried...are you all right? Let me see you!"

"I'm okay," Nate replied sharply, jerking his head away as Claire reached up to touch the ridge along his nose.

"Don't give me that! I've been beside myself! It's been storming for the better part of an hour. I couldn't reach anyone at Marybeth's. Heathe hadn't seen you, or Eddie. I can't locate your father-what's wrong? Have you seen him?

Nate shook his head and turned his back to his mother, afraid his expression would give it all away as he headed for the bathroom, where he made a show of studying his reflection.

"Nathan, please...you're not okay. If you won't let me look at you then at least let me drive you to the emergency room. Your nose ought to be looked at."

He turned on the water and leaning against the sink, shifted his head from side to side, examining his nose from every angle until a thick steam rose from the basin, leaving its opaque film on the mirror. Taking a washcloth from the cabinet, he began to clean his face, careful of the sensitive area around his nostrils where there were still traces of dried blood.

"Your knuckles are cut! Not another fight! I thought that was behind you. You'd changed so much since getting close to Marybeth. Why...why fight? I thought all that was in the past."

There was a pleading in her voice that made Nate wince as he dropped the cloth, shut off the water and went to her. For a terse moment he was overcome by the desire to tell her the truth, tell her everything, make her see how much he loved her, that he couldn't bear her disappointment in him, that he was justified in fight...for her, for them. For one terse moment. But he couldn't destroy her to vindicate himself. The truth was his cross to bear, not hers.

Nate's strong arms reached out and pulled Claire to him. "I'm sorry, Mom. It was over Marybeth. I...I ...lost control. I really am sorry," he lied, his voice gentle as he hugged her tightly.

Mrs. Stevens pulled back, regarded her son severely then smiled. "I'm sorry, too. I just love you sooo much. I'm afraid if all this violence goes unchecked...well, you're gonna get hurt bad and...well, I couldn't take that, Nathan. You're all I've got."

Nate thought how ironic and how true her last statement was. "I love you, too. And I promise I'll do better. I'll even get this nose checked tomorrow. You know," he added, flashing his most disarming grin, "another break might just be an improvement."

He closed the door then and, shedding soaked clothes, stepped into the shower. Later, as he was preparing for bed, Nate became keenly aware of the dread he felt at having to see his father that night...or ever, but he was given a temporary reprieve when Claire received a call from Robert, claiming the storm had done damage to the store and he'd have to stay there the rest of the night. Nate wasn't interested in the details, he was certain there were none. He simply felt an overwhelming sense of relief at the postponement of a confrontation he knew was inevitable and was grateful for the time to pull himself together. He also knew that he must go on tomorrow and all the days after, as if nothing at all had happened.

When Marybeth did not got to school the next day, Nate understood why. God only knew how she must feel. She'd have to know what had really occurred. He had been so absorbed in himself, he had almost forgotten about her feelings, what it must have done to her. Trying to keep a normal routine, Nate went to baseball practice that afternoon, anxious for it to end so he could get in touch with Marybeth before Mrs. Carlson returned home from work. They needed to talk...privately.

Coming from her weekly volunteer work at the hospital, Claire stopped by the school to watch the last few minutes of practice. As Nate came off the field, she greeted him. "Hi, Hon, thought I'd give you a lift home. Where's Marybeth?"

"Sick...I guess. I'll call her when we get to the house, He said, unable to meet his mother's inquisitive gaze.

The sun was suspended inches above the western horizon, dreary clouds blocking its remaining light, the sky ashen with the grayness of dusk as they pulled into the drive.

In a rush to call Marybeth, Nate charged from the car and bounded up the porch steps when Claire called out to him. "Wait a second, you need the keys."

She tossed the key ring in his direction, which he deftly caught, twirling around to unlock the bolts. But the door was ajar and giving it a light shove, he watched mesmerized from the threshold, so strong was the sting of foreboding that came over him. It was as if he were being held back by an invisible power that wouldn't allow him to enter.

"Gracious, Nathan, what on earth is the matter with you? I thought you were in such a hurry to..." Claire's voice trailed off as she brushed past her paralyzed son and stepped inside.

Even in shadows, the change was evident, even before she put a tremulous hand to the switch on the wall, immersing the room in glaring brightness with a resounding click that penetrated the stillness. Nate heard the gasp catch in Clair's throat as she devoured every detail with pain stricken eyes.

Gone were his father's chair, the sacred pipe stand and ashtray that for fifteen years had stood guard next to it. Gone were the books, Robert's books, dust lining vacuous spaces on the shelves as a reminder of where they had been that morning. Replacing Robert's trophies were dark, shiny rings against the dull, faded wood of the cabinet top. White, rectangular shaped patches, stark against the yellow weather of the wall, substituted for pictures of Robert Stevens, alone or with his friends. All too obvious were the photographs left, the ones of the family, the ones that Nate, Claire or both were in.

Mrs. Stevens trembled as she entered the dining room, halting before the breakfront. Void were the shelves that had been lined with Grandmother Stevens' crystal, the cupboard below standing open and hollow, the chest of silver gone.

"Nathan, call the police then call your father. Tell them...tell them we've been robbed." Her calm was deliberate, controlled but her equanimity was belied by the anguish that twisted her face.

"Mom, he won't be there. He's..."

"Nathan Wade!" she cried sharply, on the brink of hysterics. "Do as I say! Now!

He went to the phone, dialed the number of the store and let it ring. As he had thought, there was no answer, but he waited, hoping against common sense that he was wrong. After what seemed like several minutes, he hung up and followed after Claire who was now in the bedroom she had shared with her husband.

Opening the closet door, she found Robert's side empty. Going to the dresser, she slowly, methodically pulled open each drawer. Sure of what she would find, Nate watched from the doorway, a maelstrom of emotions churning inside. He felt nothing for the loss of his father, nothing...no fears or sadness at being deserted, unloved, unwanted. He had been all those things his whole life. He knew that now. But the pity he felt for his mother, the guilt and anger over what had been done to her, was so powerful that his chest ached and tiredness undulated its way through him as he watched her emerge from her bathroom and sit morosely on the edge of the bed. She looked at Nate but did not see him. He didn't have to ask. He knew what she had found-every indication that Robert Stevens had ever lived there had been erased.

"Leave me alone, Nathan. Close the door," Claire ordered, her voice prosaic, dead.

Instead, Nate went to her and embraced her unresponsive body, gently rocking her back and forth as one might do an injured child, until the emotion erupted, the reality suddenly becoming all too clear. Her shocked silence was replaced by mournful wails, and she clung desperately to her son. For over an hour, he held her until exhausted, she finally slept.

Gently, he laid her head on a pillow and pulled the bedspread around her before drawing a chair near the bed. He would keep a nightlong vigil over her. He would be there if she woke, if she needed him. He vowed he would always be there for her. At fifty-six years old, he was, after all, the only thing she really had.