My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 34

34

WE GOT THE CALL about four o'clock that Dad was awake and the three of us raced to the hospital as quickly as we could. They let us spend a little time with him separately. Mom went first, then Martha. I stood at the window and watched as he held my sister's hand and cried with her. There was something very strong between them and I realized that Dad could never love me in the same way he did Martha. I was not his child. Tears blurred my vision. A part of me was relieved that I wasn't. Yet, a part of me wished I was.

Later, sitting next to him holding his hand, I saw him differently. I saw him as a man instead of my father. I judged him differently.

I spoke softly. "I found a photo of Uncle Charles and Mom." He didn't say anything, just looked away and nodded. "I was wondering how he died."

"Christ, boy." His voice was tired.

"Do you know? Were you there?"

He covered his eyes with his free hand. His breath whistled out of him like a kettle just pulled off the fire. "Don't ask me to go through that. Not right now."

I squeezed his hand. "Okay."

"You straight with the police yet?"

I exhaled through my nose. "Working on it."

"You're your mom's favorite. Don't break her heart. If you don't do nothing else worthwhile in your life, please get this fixed."

"I will."

"I'd like to see it done before I die, so don't take too long. I ain't got much time."

It was odd to feel important to him, to feel something for him, to care about what he wanted. I squeezed his hand. "I'm working on it." I kissed his forehead, left the room, and took Martha for a walk around the hospital grounds. I parked her chair next to a bench outside and told her what Dad wanted. "I want to get it straight before he dies and I'm going to need some help with it."

"Sure. Anything you want." She lit a cigarette, dropped her lighter in her bag, and took a long pull on it. "But I need you to do something for me, too."

"What?"

"I want you to find out who these people are at that beach house."

"How do I do that?"

"Just go back down there and snoop around a little more. Get license plate numbers, telephone numbers, names and addresses. Whatever you can find."

I placed my hand on her shoulder and leaned closer. "What if these people are the ones that killed the Jacksons?"

"Wouldn't it be nice to have proof of that? Wouldn't that get you off the hook? You've got to start somewhere and you've already been there once. You just need to be extra careful."

"You make it sound easy."

"Just remember, these people are dangerous. You don't want to end up like me, or worse."

"Are you trying to encourage me or discourage me?"

She patted my hand. "I don't want to lose my only brother." I laid my head against hers. Half-brother? We wrapped our arms around each other and stayed like that for several minutes. When I pulled back and sat up, she squeezed my hand. "So, when can you do it?"

I stood. "It can't wait. I've got to do it tonight."

I left Martha in the smoking area and crossed the parking lot to leave. Stacy Myers, a local TV reporter ran toward me with a cameraman in tow.

"Richard! Richard! Can I have a word with you?"

Her medium length blond hair had been pinned back on the sides and she was dressed in a dark blue business suit. She carried a microphone in her hand and ran awkwardly on high heels.

"Sorry Stacy, but I have nothing to say," I shouted without slowing.

She kept running alongside me. "Please, if you don't tell your side of the story, the media will create it for you." I had gone through a lot of trouble to avoid the media, but Stacy had been a roommate of my sister's after they'd graduated from college. She was a friend. I stopped and turned to her. "Just a few questions," she said as the cameraman threw his camera up on his shoulder while running to catch us.

"No, Stacy. I had nothing to do with what happened to Ashleigh."

"Then tell it on camera. Let the people see you say it."

I expelled a heavy sigh. "I can't. I'm sorry. You're on your own with this one." As I turned, the cameraman grunted and lowered his camera.

She followed. "Come on, Rich! Give me something."

I turned back. "Okay, question: Where's the body?"

"Huh?"

"Where's the body, Stacy?"

She pulled a loose spring of blond hair out of her face. "That's what I want to ask you."

"Why do you even think she's dead?"

"Well, isn't she?"

"See? You're making the same mistake as everyone else."

"What else can I think?"

"Exactly!"

She stamped her foot. "Exactly what?"

"You think she's dead because her house looks like a murder took place there. But what if she staged this whole thing and took off never to be seen or heard from again?"

"Why would she do that?"

"Now you're thinking!" Stacy was a smart girl, but had fallen into the trap of being too beautiful and wasn't thinking. "And that, Stacy, is the best I can do for you. Sorry."

She sighed, but didn't follow when I walked off.

Back at home, I tuned through all the local TV newscasts. Everyone was reporting the Jackson murders and my presence there. One reporter even asked the Police Commissioner why I was still free.

"We're keeping a close eye on him," the Commissioner told him.

Then the reporter asked him, "Just how long do the citizens of Wilmington have to wait for Richard Baimbridge to be locked up behind bars where he belongs?"

I didn't wait for his answer. I shut the TV off, hurled the remote against the fireplace, and hoped Mom was still at the hospital and had not seen any of that.

I poured a scotch, gulped it, and poured another that I carried out on the deck. The sun had set, but the clouds still had a bright pink glow to them in the west. Settling into a chair, I brought the glass to my lips, but before I could take a sip, my cell phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi." The female voice was low and depressed.

"Sydney?"

"Yeah," she whispered.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything."

"Tell me."

"The parents want me to get another photographer."

I closed my eyes and exhaled. "I was afraid something like this might happen. I'm really sorry."

Her voice dropped back to a whisper. I could tell she was crying. "I've got to go. My next class is waiting."

"Okay. I'll call you later."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry, Sydney."

"Me, too." She hung up.

My heart ached for her. I only agreed to do the photographs in the first place because I wanted to make things easier for her. Now I'd turned into a bigger problem than she'd had to begin with.

I rose from the lounge chair, slung the liquor from my glass into the yard, kicked a broken limb off the deck, and gathered together the things I'd need to go back to the house at the beach.