CHAPTER 29
Blake met them at the train station with a formal, “Welcome home, Dr. Margot. Major Parrish.”
Margot and Frank, grinning like children, could only just restrain themselves from hugging him right there in the center of King Street Station. Blake said, “You both look very well.”
“Blake, it was marvelous!” Margot said. “So relaxing. I think every honeymoon should begin with a train journey.”
“I gather you enjoyed yourselves, then.”
“More than I could have imagined!” she said. “I can’t remember the last vacation I took.”
“That might be because you haven’t taken one in years.”
Frank insisted on helping Blake with their bags, and Margot thought Blake was indulging him, under the circumstances. When they were on their way up the hill to Broadway, she leaned forward from the backseat. “Blake, Frank took me up in an airplane! One of the Jennys, at March Field. It was absolutely the most exciting thing I’ve ever done.”
“That sounds wonderful. I envy you,” Blake said in his dignified way.
“Would you like to fly, Blake?” Frank asked. “I could arrange that.”
Blake drew a breath to answer, but Margot burst out, “Now, don’t say no automatically. Think about this, Blake. It’s the most amazing experience—the wind in your face, and the wings vibrating around you—it’s like being a bird! You just leave everything behind, all the silly things people think are so important. Everything’s tiny and far away, and none of it seems to matter very much at all.”
She could see the curve of Blake’s cheek, and she knew he was smiling. “Very well, Dr. Margot. I won’t say no. If Major Parrish finds it convenient sometime . . .”
“It would be my pleasure, Blake,” Frank said. He found Margot’s hand and held it. “I think I’ve become the Boeing Airplane Company’s expert on the Flying Jennys.”
The staff was waiting when they reached Benedict Hall. The day was typically Seattle, weak shafts of March sunshine illuminating a misting rain. All three maids stood under the shelter of the porch roof, and Hattie, in a freshly ironed apron and wearing an enormous smile, stood with them. Ramona was there, her pregnancy evident even from the street, and Allison, bouncing on her toes with excitement. Only Edith was missing, but Margot hardly noticed. She had become used to her mother’s absences.
Blake stopped in front of the house and got out, leaning on his cane, to open the back doors of the Essex. When Frank said, “Let me get the bags, Blake,” he shook his head.
“No, sir. I’ll bring them in from the garage, Major Parrish, and see they’re carried up to your rooms. You go and say hello to the family.”
They were soon all seated in the small parlor, and Hattie sent Loena in with a tea tray. Margot and Frank handed out the gifts they’d brought, including a silk scarf for each of the maids, which they sent back to the kitchen with Loena.
“Your wedding gifts are stowed in the large parlor, Margot,” Ramona said. “You and Frank can open them when you have time. I had thank-you cards printed for you, but not too many, in case you don’t like the paper I chose.”
“Thank you, Ramona. I’m sure I’ll love it. I don’t have any idea how to do that sort of thing.”
“Actually, I wasn’t sure . . . they’re printed in the names of Major and Mrs. Frank Parrish. Was that all right?”
Margot smiled at Frank, and reached across to touch Ramona’s hand. “Perfect,” she said. “It’s just perfect. I’ll be Dr. Benedict when I’m working, but Mrs. Parrish everywhere else.”
“Well,” Ramona said, relieved, smiling. “That sounds like a sensible arrangement. Good for you, Margot!”
Margot picked up her teacup and eyed her sister-in-law over the rim. “You look really good, Ramona. You’re feeling well?”
“Perfect! Two and a half months to go. We’re doing up the room next to ours as a nursery. It’s big enough so the nurse will be able to sleep in there, too.”
“Goodness! Benedict Hall is going to have a huge staff.”
“Yes, but Blake says it’s fine. We’ve kept Thelma on, as you saw, to help Hattie.”
“Good.” Margot glanced at Frank. “Leona went up to unpack for us. I hope that was all right with you.”
“Takes some getting used to,” he said. “But I’m sure she’ll make a better job of it than I usually do.”
Margot set her cup down. “Is Mother all right?” she asked Ramona.
Ramona’s smile faded, and she linked her hands over her swelling abdomen. “Something happened,” she said. “Just this morning, actually. I don’t know what it was.”
“Really? She seemed to enjoy the wedding. It brought her out of herself a bit, and I thought perhaps she was getting better.”
“I did, too, or at least I hoped so. But this morning—she was in your old room, after breakfast, helping the twins to clear out the last of your things, and—I don’t know what it was. Leona said she had something in her hands, and she went into Preston’s room and locked the door. She hasn’t come out.”
Margot’s mouth went dry, and her heart began to pound. She rose, and tried to smooth the creases from the skirt of her traveling dress. “I think I’d better go up.” Frank started to get up, too, but she waved him back. “No, you stay. Tell Allison about the seals we saw from the train.”
Anxiety churned in her stomach as she climbed the staircase. Where had she left it? She had just jammed it into a bottom drawer after that terrible night, when she was too tired to think, too emotionally drained to plan anything, and then she had forgotten all about it. There had been the rather lovely Christmas, with the excitement of her engagement. She had been busy all of January with the Women and Infants Clinic, her own clinic on Post Street, and the wedding preparations. She had spent every spare moment with Frank, going to her bedroom only to sleep or to change. Frank had repaired the gouged-out hole in the footings of her clinic, and the shrubs were budding now, stretching their branches up toward the wintry sun. They would soon hide the foundation.
Preston had been on her mind, of course. She planned a visit to Western State Hospital after she had seen to things at her clinic, picked up rounds again at Seattle General. She had written to Dr. Keller explaining her concerns about Preston’s medication, requesting that someone have a look at his scars, but she thought it would be best to follow up in person.
But the sapphire—she had put the stone out of her mind. She had forgotten all about it.
She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders before knocking on Preston’s door. “Mother? It’s Margot. We’re home, Frank and I.” She raised her hand to knock again.
The door flew open before her knuckles struck the wood. Edith stood before her, wild-eyed, graying hair disheveled, cheeks flaming. She stood taller than she had in months, and her voice rang out in a way it hadn’t in more than a year. “What have you done to Preston?” she demanded.
Margot said, “What? What do you mean, Mother?”
Edith held out the chunk of concrete, lifting it up in her two hands so the half-buried sapphire gleamed blue in the light from the hall. Edith’s eyes blazed a matching blue fire. “Where is he, Margot? Why are you hiding my son from me?”
Margot slumped against the doorjamb. She couldn’t think how to answer.
Within the hour they were on their way to the hospital. A terse telephone call to Dickson’s office had brought him swiftly home, and he was closeted with Edith for no more than ten minutes before emerging with a thunderous expression to tell Blake they would be taking the Essex out again. Margot made another telephone call, but she had to put her father on before obtaining permission to see Preston immediately.
Dickson said, “You don’t have to come, daughter.”
“I do,” she said. “If Mother—that is, you might need me.” She had her medical bag, and after Frank helped her with her coat and she had put on her hat and gloves, she carried it with her to the waiting automobile. Dread made her stomach roil.
Frank repeated, “Margot, I can come with you.”
“No, darling,” she said. “Father and I can manage. You go on to the Red Barn.”
“Be careful, Margot.”
She nodded. “I will. It’s Mother I’m worried about.”
Edith was so frantic to depart, once she heard where Preston was, that it took both Margot and Dickson to persuade her to take the time to put on her coat and gloves. In the backseat of the Essex, she sat twisting her hands together and asking, over and over, “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dickson said, glancing at Margot above Edith’s head, “He’s terribly scarred, Edith. You will hardly know him. We thought—in your fragile state—”
“My state,” she said in a brittle voice, “has been fragile because everyone said my son was dead, but I knew, I knew. You’ve all been lying to me, deceiving me!”
“No, Mother,” Margot said, a little more loudly than she intended. “That’s not true. We didn’t know Preston was alive until just before Christmas.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“Edith, calm yourself. Try to listen,” Dickson said
She shook her head, and twisted and twisted her hands. “I don’t understand. He was burned; he’s been suffering. He needs me, and you didn’t tell me!”
It did no good to explain that Preston hadn’t wanted her to know. It seemed pointless to relate the story of that long night when he had seized Allison and nearly killed his sister and himself. Edith talked on and on, asking, pleading, accusing, and by the time they reached the hospital, Margot was debating with herself over whether she should give her mother a sedative before she saw Preston. This time she kept her medical bag with her as they crossed the grounds of the hospital and went up the steps between the sandstone pillars.
Edith finally fell silent when they stepped inside the echoing entrance hall. Margot wanted to hold her arm, to steady her, but Edith wriggled free and watched with fierce attention as Dickson walked to the office and spoke to the secretary there. A moment later Dr. Keller himself, with Mr. Small in attendance, came out to escort them. They went up in the elevator and emerged onto the ward, where a nurse—a different one this time, younger, less mild in her speech and movements—came to meet them.
“We’ll bring the patient to you,” the nurse said, with a gesture to Mr. Small.
Edith said, “No! No, I want to go to his room.”
“Mother,” Margot warned. “I want to prepare you for—”
Edith turned on her with a sound so much like a cat’s hiss that Margot fell back a step before she could catch herself. “Haven’t you done enough?” her mother cried. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble, Margot?”
Margot was aware of Dr. Keller’s attention on them, and the nurse was poised, one hand in the air, as if she might need to seize someone or something. Mr. Small, stolid and silent, folded his arms, watching and listening.
Dickson, with a weary sigh, put his arm around his wife. “All right, Edith,” he said. “That’s enough, now. It’s not Margot’s fault. You mustn’t speak to her that way.”
Edith pulled away from him. “You always take her side, Dickson. Now leave me alone. I want to see my son.”
There seemed to be nothing for it but to allow her, with the nurse at her side and Dr. Keller and Mr. Small just behind, to walk down the long corridor. The ward was oddly silent today, and Margot suspected the sedatives had been increased when Keller learned they were coming. She heard mumbled voices here and there, an occasional querulous call, but that was all. She and her father came last, and Margot wished she didn’t have to go at all. Keller had no medical bag with him, but she kept hers close, thinking of what she might be able to do if her mother fainted, or had hysterics, or, God forbid, suffered a breakdown when she saw Preston’s scarred face.
The nurse lifted the heavy ring of keys at her waist and sifted through them for the correct one. Edith fidgeted impatiently beside her, calling, “Preston? Preston, are you there?”
Margot heard, from inside the cell, her brother give a prolonged groan of recognition. The lock clicked, and the nurse began to pull the door open. Edith started to push past her, and Margot, alarmed, took two long strides, to go into the cell with her mother whether she wanted her there or not. It was going to be a ghastly shock. Edith had never been good at shocks.
The door was open. Edith stepped through and stopped abruptly, one hand pressed over her mouth, gazing at Preston. He was standing by the barred window, the weak sunlight falling full on his disfigured face, the ridges and whorls of his burn scars, the distortion of his mouth, the absence of his eyebrows and most of his hair.
He said, “Mother. Oh, God.”
Edith said, in a tone of pure grief, “Oh, Preston. Preston, son. My poor, poor darling.” She put out both her arms, crossed the cell, and took Preston in her arms. She cradled his head and caressed his scarred skull, murmuring over and over, “Oh, my poor darling. How awful for you. My poor, poor darling.”