Comes The Blind Fury Part 15

"So it was the fog, was it?" There had been fog the day Alan Hanley fell, too. He could remember it clearly. It had come on suddenly, the way it did sometimes with sudden changes in temperature.

Mich.e.l.le nodded.

"Your father thinks he hurt you. Do you think so?"

Mich.e.l.le shook her head. "Why would he?"

"I don't know," Carson said softly. His eves moved to the doll on the pillow next to Mich.e.l.le. "Does she have a name?"

"Amanda-Mandy."

Josiah paused, then smiled, more to himself than to Mich.e.l.le. "Well, I'll tell you what. You lie here, and let Amanda take care of you. All right?" He patted Mich.e.l.le's hand, then stood up. A second later he was gone, and Mich.e.l.le was alone once more.

She pulled her doll closer to her.

"You're going to have to be my friend now, Mandy," she whispered into the empty room. "I wish you were a real baby. I could take care of you, and we could be friends, and show each other things, and do things together. And you'd never say bad things to me, like Susan did. You'd just love me, and I'd just love you, and we'd take care of each other."

Fighting against the pain, she moved the doll around until it lay on her chest, its face only inches from her own.

"I'm glad you have brown eyes," she said softly. "Brown eyes, like mine. Not blue, like Jenny's and Mom's and Dad's. I'll bet my mother-my real mother-had brown eyes, and I'll bet yours did, too. Did your mama love you, Mandy?"

She fell silent again, and tried to listen, tried to hear whatever voices might be talking in the house. Then she began wis.h.i.+ng that Jenny were in the room with her. Jenny couldn't talk to her, but at least Jenny was alive, was breathing, was-real.

That was the trouble with Mandy. She wasn't real. Try as she would, Mich.e.l.le couldn't make her be anything but a doll. And now, as she lay alone, her whole body throbbing with pain, Mich.e.l.le wanted somebody-somebody who would be hers alone, belong to her, be a part of her.

Somebody who would never betray her.

Slowly, the drug began to take effect. In a little while, Mich.e.l.le drifted back to the darkness.

The darkness, and the voice.

The voice that was out there, calling to her.

Now, as she slept, the darkness no longer frightened her. Now she only wanted to find the voice, or have the voice find her.

CHAPTER 11.

For the Pendletons, there was a sense of waiting for something-something unforeseen and unknowable, something that would bring them all back to the real world, and tell them that life was going to be again what it had been before. It had been that way for ten days now, ever since Mich.e.l.le had been brought back from the hospital in Boston, riding into town in an ambulance, making the kind of entrance she would have loved only a month ago.

But something inside her had changed. It was more than the accident-it had to be.

At first she had refused to get out of bed at all. When June, backed up by the doctors, had insisted that it was time for her to begin taking care of herself, they had discovered that she could no longer walk by herself.

She had been given every examination possible, and as far as the doctors could tell, there was nothing wrong with her except for some bruises that had long since begun to heal.

Her left hip hurt her, and her left leg was nearly useless.

They had given her more tests-X-rayed her brain and spinal column again and again, injected dyes into her bloodstream, tapped her spine, checked her reflexes-gone over her until she wished she could simply die. Still unable to determine the cause of her lameness, they had brought in a physical therapist, who had worked with Mich.e.l.le until, ten days ago, she had finally been able to walk by herself, though painfully, and only by leaning heavily on a cane.

So they had brought her home. June told herself that time would make the difference.

In time, Mich.e.l.le would regain herself, would begin to recover from the shocks and indignities of the hospital, would begin dismissing her lameness with the same humor with which she had always dismissed whatever problems she had faced.

Mich.e.l.le was taken up to her room and put in her bed.

She asked for her doll.

And there, for ten days, she lay, the doll tucked in the crook of her arm, staring idly at the ceiling. She responded when she was spoken to, called for help when she needed to go to the bathroom, and sat uncomplainingly on a chair for the few minutes it took June to change her bed each day.

But for the most part, she simply stayed in bed, silent and staring.

June was sure there was more to it than even the accident, the pain, or the crippling. No, it was something else, and June was sure it had to do with Cal.

Now, on Sat.u.r.day morning, June glanced across the breakfast table at Cal, who was staring into his coffee cup, his face expressionless. She knew what he was thinking about, though he hadn't told her. He was thinking about Mich.e.l.le, and the recovery he claimed she was making.

It had started the day after they had brought her home, when Cal had announced that he thought Mich.e.l.le was getting better. And each day, while June was horribly aware that nothing was changing for Mich.e.l.le, Cal had talked of how well she was doing.

June knew the cause of it-Cal was convinced that whatever was wrong with Mich.e.l.le was his fault. For him to live with himself, Mich.e.l.le had to get better. And so he insisted that she was.

But she wasn't.

As June watched him, she found herself becoming angry.

"When are you going to stop this charade?" she heard herself saying. As Cal's head came up and his eyes narrowed, she knew she had chosen the wrong words.

"Would you like to tell me what you're talking about?"

"I'm talking about Mich.e.l.le," June replied. "I'm talking about the fact that every day you say she's better, when it's obvious that she's not."

"She's doing fine." Cal's voice was low, and June was sure she could hear a desperation in his words.

"If she's doing fine, why is she still in bed?"

Cal s.h.i.+fted, and his eyes avoided June's. "She needs to get her strength back. She needs to rest-"

"She needs to get out of bed, and face life! And you need to stop kidding yourself! It doesn't matter what happened, or whose fault it is. The fact is she's crippled, and she's going to stay that way, and both of you have to face up to it and get on with things!"

Cal rose from his chair, his eyes wild, and for a split second, June was afraid he might hit her. Instead, he moved toward the hall.

"Where are you going?"

He turned back to face her.

"I'm going to talk to Josiah Carson. Do you mind?"

She minded. She minded very much. She wished he would stay home, and if he did nothing else, at least finish the reconstruction of the butler's pantry. But Cal was spending more and more time with Josiah, hanging on to him, and she knew there was no way to stop him.

"If you need to talk to him, talk to him," she said. "What time will you be back?"

"I don't know," Cal replied. A moment later, she heard the front door slam as he left the house.

June sat alone at the table, wondering what to do. And then it came to her. Today she was going to get through to Mich.e.l.le, make her see that her life was not not over. over.

As she was about to start upstairs, there was a soft rapping at the kitchen door. She opened it to find Sally Carstairs and Jeff Benson standing on the porch.

"We came over to see Mich.e.l.le," Sally announced She seemed slightly uncertain, as if she wasn't sure they should have come. "Is it all right?"

June smiled, and some of the tension left her. Every day she had hoped Mich.e.l.le's friends would come. For a while she had toyed with the idea of calling Mrs. Carstairs, or Constance Benson, but each time had rejected it-visitors forced to come would be worse than no visitors at all "Of course it's all right," she said. "You should have come a long time ago."

She settled the children at the kitchen table, gave them each a cinnamon roll, then went upstairs.

"Mich.e.l.le?" She kept her voice soft, but Mich.e.l.le was awake, her eyes, as usual, fixed on the ceiling.

"Um?"

"You have visitors-Sally and Jeff are here to see you. Shall I bring them up?"

"I-I don't think so" Mich.e.l.le's voice was dull.

"Why not? Don't you feel well?" June tried to keep her irritation out of her voice, but failed. Mich.e.l.le peered at her mother.

"Why did they come?" she asked. She sounded frightened.

"Because they want to see you. They're your friends." When Mich.e.l.le didn't respond, June pressed the issue. "Aren't they?"

"I guess," Mich.e.l.le replied.

"Then I'll bring them up." Not giving Mich.e.l.le time to protest, she went to the head of the stairs and called down to the children below. A moment later she ushered them into Mich.e.l.le's room. Mich.e.l.le was struggling to sit up in bed. When Sally made a move to help her, Mich.e.l.le looked at her angrily.

"I can do it," she said. Summoning all her strength, she heaved herself up, then flopped against the pillows, wincing at the strain.

"Are you all right?" Sally asked, her eyes wide as she realized the extent of Mich.e.l.le's injuries.

"I will be," Mich.e.l.le said. There was a pause. "But it hurts," she added. She looked from Sally to Jeff, an unspoken accusation in her eyes.

June hesitated in the doorway, watching the interplay among the three children. Perhaps it was a mistake-perhaps she shouldn't have brought Sally and Jeff upstairs. But Mich.e.l.le had to face them, had to talk to them; they were her friends. Without a word, she slipped out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

There was an awkward silence after June left, as each of the children waited for someone else to speak first. Jeff shuffled restlessly, and avoided Mich.e.l.le's eyes.

"Well, I'm not dead, anyway," Mich.e.l.le said at last.

"Can you walk?" Sally asked.

Mich.e.l.le nodded. "But not very well. It hurts, and I limp something awful."

"It'll get better, won't it?" Sally sat carefully on the edge of the bed, trying not to shake Mich.e.l.le.

Mich.e.l.le didn't answer.

Sally's eyes filled with tears. It just didn't seem fair. Mich.e.l.le hadn't done anything. If anybody should have gotten hurt, it should have been Susan Peterson. "I'm sorry," she said aloud. "n.o.body meant for anything to happen to you. Susan was only teasing..."

"I slipped," Mich.e.l.le said suddenly. "It wasn't anybody's fault. I just slipped. And I'll be all right-you'll see! I'll be fine!" She turned her head away from Sally, but not before Sally saw the bitter tears beginning to form.

"Do you hate us all?" Sally asked. "I hate Susan..."

Mich.e.l.le looked at Sally curiously. "Then why didn't you make her shut up? Why didn't you help me?"

The tears welled over and ran down her cheeks, and Sally quietly began crying crying too. Jeff tried to ignore the girls, and wished he hadn't come. He hated it when girls cried-it always made him feel as though he'd done something wrong. He decided to change the subject. too. Jeff tried to ignore the girls, and wished he hadn't come. He hated it when girls cried-it always made him feel as though he'd done something wrong. He decided to change the subject.

"When are you coming back to school? Do you want us to bring you your work?"

Mich.e.l.le sniffled. "I don't feel like studying."

"But you'll get so far behind," Sally protested.

"Maybe I won't come back to school."

"You have to," Jeff said. "Everybody has to go to school."

"Maybe my parents will send me to another school."

"But why?" Sally's tears had disappeared.

"Because I'm crippled."

"But you can walk. You said so."

"I limp. Everybody will laugh at me."

"No, they won't," Sally a.s.sured her. "We won't let them, will we, Jeff?" Jeff nodded in agreement, though his expression was uncertain.

"Susan Peterson will," Mich.e.l.le said lifelessly, as if she didn't care.

Sally made a face. "Susan Peterson laughs at everybody. Just ignore her."

"Like everybody did at the picnic?" Mich.e.l.le's voice was bitter now, and her face turned angry. "Why don't you leave me alone? Why don't all of you just leave me alone!"

Abashed at Mich.e.l.le's outburst, Sally stood up quickly. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, her face reddening. "We were just trying to help..."

"n.o.body can help," Mich.e.l.le said, her voice quivering. "I have to do it myself. All of it!"

She turned her face away and closed her eyes. Jeff and Sally stared at her for a moment, then started toward the door.