Chapter 68 Charleigh
Charleigh
At dawn, Charleigh rolls out of bed. She hasn’t slept a wink. Bleary-eyed, she pads to the bathroom, tosses water on her face, brushes her teeth.
After a swift cup of Folgers, she slips out before Alexander and Nellie are awake.
She’s desperate to see Monica, to see how Blair’s doing, without any company from either of them.
When Alexander got home from the rifle range yesterday, she told him about the accident. As predicted, he played the whole shocked-denial game. But she could see it in his face—that pinch of concern that went beyond Blair’s well-being—so she set about making dinner, busying herself in the kitchen.
Now she’s making the short drive over to the hospital, taking deep breaths as she weaves through the tree-lined streets.
This morning, thank God, the lobby is empty. Empty, that is, of faces she recognizes.
But as she turns down the hall, her feet stutter, and her heartbeat bangs in her throat.
Standing outside Blair’s room is a police officer, hat in hand. Her radio crackles softly by her side.
This is bad.
Charleigh wants to run screaming from the building, but she can’t; she needs to find out what’s going on.
She walks toward the room, the soles of her sandals tonguing the sanitized, polished floors. In her arm, the glass vase of white irises she picked up at the hospital’s flower shop wobbles.
At the entrance, she stops, her eyes taking in the room.
Monica sits in a chair next to Blair’s bed, her hand laced through her daughter’s. Blair’s eyes are closed, her head encased in a bandage so thick, she looks like an Egyptian mummy. Tubes snake from her arms, her chest; machines bleat all around them.
Chip’s standing opposite the door, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the windowsill.
Next to Chip, seated in a chair, is Detective Roy Walker—a stout, middle-aged man with a healthy paunch—whom Charleigh recognizes because he’s been on the police force for as long as she’s been back in town.
He’s kind, warm, the type who always seems to be offering doughnuts in the break room at church (not that they go very often or anything), making house calls if there’s a key locked inside a car.
Pulling over to change a flat. That sort of thing. But today, he eyes Charleigh warily.
Great.
It’s not like Nellie’s ever been involved with the police, per se, but it’s also not like everyone in town is unaware that she’s a problem child.
But before she can mull over this too much, Monica’s eyes meet hers, and Monica bursts into tears.
Charleigh rushes over to her, pulls her into a hug. “Oh, honey, I am so, so sorry. I just can’t believe this happened!”
Monica’s skinny frame quivers as Charleigh holds her. “I know, I know… My baby. What am I gonna do if—”
“We have to keep positive,” Chip says, his voice leaden, sad. “Charleigh, that’s what I keep tellin’ her. Our Blair is a fighter; she’s gonna make it. And just this morning, she opened her eyes.”
A nurse sweeps in, lifts the vase from Charleigh, sets it on a cabinet.
“Chip is right,” Charleigh says, fighting back her own tears. “Blair is tough and strong. She’s gonna get through this!”
At this, Monica crumples into full-blown sobs. “I—I’m grateful you’re here, but I don’t think I’m up for visitors—”
“No, of course you’re not, honey, but—” Charleigh fumbles. “I’ll pop by later, okay?”
Chip follows Charleigh out. As they walk down the hall, he sighs. “I’m broken up, obviously, and in shock, but that woman in there will not recover if Blair doesn’t pull through—”
“I’m so sorry. But she will, because she has to.”
“We sure appreciate you comin’ by, but we need some time right now. There’s been all kind of people in and out, as you can imagine—”
“Don’t say another word. I’ll tell the others to give y’all some space.” With that, Charleigh senses her opening. “What in the world are the cops doing there when you need some peace? That has to feel odd.”
They’ve reached the lobby. Chip stops, digs his hands into his pockets, studies the floor.
Charleigh’s insides twist and churn, a wet towel being wrung out.
“Because it’s such a freak thing, and because, I guess, somebody noticed that the doors to the boathouse were open, so they’re keeping an open mind about all possibilities.”
“Good Lord, Chip,” Charleigh says, adopting the softest tone she can manage. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he says, his ruddy face turning solemn, “that maybe the police think this wasn’t an accident at all—”
“But whoever in God’s creation would ever—” Charleigh stops herself, literally bites her tongue.
“I don’t know what to think. But when they brought her here in the ambulance, the police told us to call if she—” His voice splinters; he takes a second and swallows hard. “If she woke up. And this morning, she did, but it was brief. Opened her eyes, shut them again.”
“I see,” Charleigh manages to utter, mind whirring. “Well, good thing they’re here, then.” She squeezes him into a hug. “Take care. I’ll be praying.”
She shuttles out of the lobby, practically collapses in the parking lot on the way to her Jag.
Maybe the police think this wasn’t an accident at all.
Charleigh ferries herself to her car, drives away. Her grip is slick on the wheel, as if she’s just rubbed oil into her palms, and her heartbeat is still banging in her throat.
Jesus Christ.
But also…surely not.
Nellie may have done some shady shit in the past, yet putting someone in a coma? But then Charleigh’s brain ticks back to the dollhouse Nellie set on fire, to poor Thor almost asphyxiating…
She turns down her leafy lane, readies herself to pummel Nellie with more questions. She’ll do it stealthily, but still, she’s got to get in front of this. If there is even any this to get in front of.
But as she wheels up her drive, she spies Nellie and Alexander climbing into the Wagoneer. She hops out, walks over to them. Nellie’s door is still open.
“Where are you two headed?” she asks.
“Shooting range,” Nellie says coolly.
Charleigh waits for Nellie to ask about Blair—she left them a note in the breakfast nook, saying that she was going to the hospital—but Nellie just stares at her blankly, impatiently.
“Well, I’ve got a little good news,” Charleigh chirps. Nellie lifts an eyebrow. “About Blair.”
Alexander leans over. “Good, let’s hear it!”
“She woke up this morning. Just for a sec, but at least she opened her eyes. It’s a good sign, I think? Monica was a wreck, so I didn’t stay too long—”
“No, that’s a really good sign, baby.” Alexander winks at her.
Nellie whistles out a long sigh. “Oh, thank God. That’s such a relief. She’ll be okay, right, Mom?”
Charleigh can’t tell if Nellie is relieved because Blair actually has a shot at recovering, or if, because she’s gonna make it, Nellie can’t be charged with murder.
She needs to inhale, exhale, relax.
“Yes, I really believe she will. She’s tough as nails.”
Alexander nods, places a hand on Nellie’s shoulder.
Charleigh is about to close Nellie’s door, let them go, but she pauses. “And the police were there today.”
Nellie’s features rearrange themselves from cool, detached, to puzzled.
“Why? What for?” Alexander quizzes her.
“Seems far-fetched to me, but they’re looking into foul play. Said if Blair came to, to call them. But she only opened her eyes, closed them, so—”
“Dad, let’s go,” Nellie says, shutting the door. “I’m getting upset.”
If Charleigh thought she’d get an ounce of relief from spilling this, from gauging Nellie’s reaction, she was wrong.
Her insides begin churning again as she watches the Wagoneer disappear down the drive.