Waiting for Butterflies Page 12

  Sam stood in disbelief. What had he just witnessed? He wanted to believe he heard sincerity in the apology. Had Rachel ever challenged Maggie like that, with that tone? Maggie never talked about it if she did, but surely this change in their daughter couldn’t have taken place over the course of the last several weeks, could it?

  Sam went inside and found Olivia, wide-eyed, sitting in his recliner. He sat down, shifting Olivia to his lap.

  “Is Rachel in trouble?”

  Sam considered his answer, sorry Olivia had witnessed the confrontation. “Yes, she is.”

  Olivia settled in and leaned back against him.

  “Livi, did Mom ever yell at Rachel like that?”

  “Um, maybe. Like if she had to keep telling her to clean her room.”

  “Did Rachel talk to Mom like she just talked to me?”

  Olivia wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

  Sam wasn’t sure if the answer made him feel better or worse. If only this were about the pile of clothes on her bedroom floor. If only it were about her leaving without telling him. But somehow it had escalated into something bigger. Although Wade was right and Rachel was home safe, Sam still could not forgive himself. He had compromised his family again. Even though the ending to this day’s saga could have been much worse, he couldn’t forgive himself.

  Maggie couldn’t decide who she was angrier with, Sam or Rachel. She watched strangers living in her home. She stood between Sam’s recliner and the TV, trying to penetrate his thoughts with her glare.

  “Get your head out of the sand, Sam! Talk to your daughter for crying out loud! Can’t you see she needs you? Discipline her all you want, but that’s not the answer here. She’s sinking fast, and you better get her to talk!”

  Part of Maggie could admit being angry with Sam was unfair. He didn’t know the things she knew. He wasn’t able to watch Rachel like she was. He didn’t see her sneak into the medicine cabinet and steal the painkillers. He couldn’t stand over her shoulder and read the messages she texted, or her online chats with Cricket, or see some of Cricket’s friends Rachel followed on social media. He asked for her passwords, but would he actually monitor Rachel’s online activity? Was it fair to hold him accountable as he was still learning to step in and fill her role?

  And Rachel. Maggie was heartbroken by the choices she made. The worst thing she could remember punishing Rachel for was lying when she thought she lost her cell phone while they were shopping. Rachel had lain it down on a display and walked away. Maggie picked it up, and when she questioned her, Rachel insisted the phone was in her purse, although her voice betrayed her. Now she’s taking pills? And sneaking around to hang out with older kids they didn’t know? And she refused to go to church? Maggie began to realize the extent of Rachel’s pain and her desperation to escape it. She wondered if Rachel were more like Sam than she had realized, lacking faith when life didn’t offer easy answers. She stood in the middle of the living room, utterly useless.

  Sam continued to stare through her, focused on the sports highlights, with Olivia snuggled beside him, so precious, innocent. But Maggie was beginning to worry about her, too. Her presence interrupted Olivia’s ability to accept and grieve the loss of her mother. Although Maggie needed her connection with her daughter, she feared how it might be affecting Olivia. As upset as she was with Sam and Rachel, at least their anger and grief were part of a natural process.

  “Sam.” Maggie tried one final plea. “Hear me. Please. Take care of the girls.”

  Sam picked up the remote control and muted the TV.

  “What’s wrong, Daddy?” Olivia turned her head to look up at him

  “Sshhh.” Sam listened.

  “What do you hear?” Olivia whispered.

  “Nothing, I guess. I thought I heard someone.”

  “Maybe you heard Mommy.”

  “Mommy?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, she said to take care of me and Rachel.”

  Stone faced, Sam turned up the volume on the TV. “I’m trying.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “That’s epic!” Cricket laughed as Rachel relayed the details of her standoff with her dad. She pushed the remains of her lunch aside, and gave Rachel a high five.

  “Yeah, epic.” Rachel smiled, but behind her bravado, she swam in confusion. She didn’t expect Cricket to applaud her. She expected some advice, maybe a little sympathy. Instead, Cricket treated her like a hero, and the confusing part was Rachel kind of liked it. She had her first major face-off with her dad, and although she didn’t win, she didn’t lose, either. She was surprised at how well she handled herself. On the inside, she crumbled, yet, she didn’t let it show. But once she was safe in her bedroom, she went numb as she replayed the confrontation in her head, amazed at the power that had rushed through her, and a little scared at the brief glimpse of helplessness that surfaced on her dad’s face.

  She didn’t know what it was about Cricket, how she could be such a source of courage. Rachel enjoyed it, and feared it. She liked making decisions for herself, having some control. She welcomed the changes she could feel happening within herself, but they were happening so quickly. And though she didn’t want to be the Rachel she used to be, she somehow feared losing touch with that part of herself. But that part did everything right, obeyed her parents, worked hard in school, went to church. And what did that get her? Pain, that’s what. Her whole life turned upside down. Life isn’t fair. How many times had she heard that? Now she believed it, so she’d better toughen up so she could face it.

  “So, he took your cell phone but not your laptop?”

  “Yeah, I guess he thought I’d need it for school or something.”

  “No, he just didn’t think about it. You’ll see, he’s so wrapped up in his own grief, he can’t really think about you. My mom did the same thing. When she was taking care of my dad, I kind of understood it. She was so tired all the time, and sad, but she kept trying to be strong. I felt sorry for her. But after Dad died, well, I guess I thought I’d get my mom back. But it didn’t take long for me to realize I’d lost her, too. She kind of caved in. That’s when I realized I would have to take care of myself.” Cricket looked Rachel in the eyes. “Just like you’re going to have to take care of yourself.”

  Rachel didn’t want that last statement to be true. Her dad hadn’t caved in, had he? He was making an effort, right? He just wasn’t Mom. He didn’t know how to be. A pang of regret moved sharply through Rachel as she admitted that. She wanted to get into a time machine and beg her mom not to go to the Hitching house, or lie and say the clients had called and cancelled. Or—not send that text. Then her mom would still be here to take care of everything, just like she always had. And her dad could go back to being the dad he knew how to be. But there was no time machine. No going back. Cricket was right.

  The bell rang to end lunch.

  “See ya after school?” Cricket started up the steps to the freshmen floor.

  “Yeah, see ya.” Rachel walked toward the science lab, the class she dreaded most. Partly because her grade was in the toilet, but mostly because Kristen would be there, trying to make eye contact, looking for an opening, a chance to fix things. But Rachel didn’t want to fix things, and how was she supposed to say that to Kristen? Kristen the soccer star, the straight-A student, the girl with a dad and a mom. What would she say? You live a charmed life, Kristen. You don’t know what I’m going through. Cricket does. You wouldn’t understand. In particular, she wouldn’t understand the pills, and Rachel didn’t want to worry about hiding them from her, too. Too much pressure. What was the big deal anyway? She never took them during school. Concentrating was hard enough without the haze. But at home, the haze had become her mode of survival. And it wasn’t like she was smoking weed or something illegal. They were pills from her dad’s medicine cabinet, prescribed by a doctor for crying out loud. Medicine. Something to help her get through the rough stuff. Until it gets easier, like Cricket said.

  It was noon and
Sam was in his recliner, not behind the desk in his office buried in paperwork, as he should be. Instead, he sat in silence, unable to will himself into action. He had never been a man of indecision. He identified a situation, studied all the options, and put solutions into motion. Why was this any different? He had a situation. His job. The girls. But what were his options? Oh, how he wished he could talk to Maggie.

  Or touch her. Or tell her one more time how much he loved her. Did he even know how much until now? Had he ever realized how much Maggie had helped him be the man he wanted to be? Husband, father, detective. She made him better. The last night they lay in bed together, how she listened—again—to his frustration with an investigation. He never realized how much he relied on her to allow him to process, logically, and even emotionally. He longed to be able to share his burden with her again.

  The longing consumed him and drew him to their bedroom. He reached for the photo beside his bed and walked to the chair in the corner. Maggie’s chair. Sam let himself sink into the cushions and feel the chair envelop him. He rubbed his hands along the armrests, leaned his head back. He pictured Maggie sitting in this very place and imagined the warmth he felt between the chair and his body transferring into him any part of her that remained.

  He placed the photograph on the table beside the chair. Would he ever feel that happy again? He stared at the picture, then drifted to the other items on the table. Near the edge lay a book Maggie hadn’t finished reading, her place marked with a scrap of paper covered with artistic doodles. Rachel’s no doubt. He imagined her salvaging the scrap from Rachel’s trashcan or maybe from her backpack. Sam quickly passed over Maggie’s Bible, now covered with a light coat of dust. Beside it were her reading glasses and a pen. He picked up the pen and rolled it between his fingers. How many of Maggie’s words flowed through the pen, its ink carrying her deepest thoughts from her heart to the page? His eyes found the drawer that kept the journal. Her journal. Sam’s heart raced. Inside those pages he could find her. It was all he had left of her, honest and uncensored. He pulled open the drawer and lifted the journal, gently, reverently. Sam had never considered reading it before, and now he wondered if he was trespassing.

  He studied the distressed leather cover as if waiting for its permission to read the pages it protected. His fingers brushed across the smooth finish, then rested on a quote embossed at the bottom: If nothing ever changed, there’d be no butterflies. Sam preferred that nothing ever changed, that his family was complete, that Maggie was the one sitting in the chair with the journal in her hands. His fingers moved from the quote to the upper corner of the cover and across an imprint of a butterfly. Carefully, he opened the journal to reveal the first page.

  Maggie’s delicate handwriting filled a brief paragraph:

  As life presents each new day and each new day presents its challenges, this journal is my reminder that challenges change me, and change is necessary. This journal speaks to the part of me that prefers predictability, that fears the unknown. When I open its pages to pray my way through life’s trials, the butterfly is my visual reminder that good things, beauty, can result from change. I find solace in the reminder, in the butterfly, and ultimately, in its Creator.

  Sam read the words with a mixture of anger and jealousy. Maggie didn’t know anything about change. She wasn’t here to see the debris that resulted from the change thrust upon her family. There was nothing beautiful in it, no solace to be found. Yet, he envied her, knowing somehow she would have found peace in the crisis. Is that what she would call faith? It should have been him, he thought for the thousandth time. She would have known how to cope.

  Sam turned to the back of the journal. Several pages were blank. He flipped through them until he saw Maggie’s writing again and stopped. He wondered what her final entry, her last prayer, had been. When he read the date, he recalled the night she had waited up for him, how she had listened to his frustration about the Simms case. Had she prayed about the case? Had she prayed for him? As he began to read, Sam realized Maggie had her own concerns that night. Nate, the little boy she had mentioned from time to time. Genuine compassion touched him. Why didn’t Maggie tell him? Then he remembered. Her fear of losing one of the girls. It made sense now. The case hadn’t ignited her anxiety. Nate’s death had. What had he promised Maggie that night? That the girls were safe and happy, and together they would make sure they stayed that way? How quickly that promise was broken.

  Sam began to doubt his decision to read Maggie’s entries. He wanted to find comfort in her words, to find a hiding place inside her heart. Instead, he felt exposed. But he couldn’t force himself to stop reading. Instead, he turned to the front to find the first dated entry and estimated the journal covered nearly five years. He flipped through to find the date Maggie’s father passed away. Yes, there was an entry. He turned a few pages and found an entry about the ribbon cutting ceremony for Blake Real Estate. Near the back again, he searched the dates in September. There it was, an entry about Olivia starting kindergarten. Sam leafed through more pages, skimming some, stopping to read others, feeling there was a part of Maggie he hadn’t really known. But what married couple communicated on such an intimate level as Maggie shared in her journal?

  Finally, he decided he’d read enough for now. He’d heard Maggie’s voice in her words, touched her heart even if for a moment. It was Maggie, comforting . . . and painful. As Sam closed the journal, the pages fluttered. A name caught his attention, then disappeared within the journal. A gasp caught in his throat. Why would Maggie have written that? It must have been something else, a combination of letters that at quick glance looked familiar. Did he dare open the journal to see if he could find it? What if he did?

  Sam opened the cover once more, convinced he would not find the name he thought he saw. There’s no way. Yet a long suppressed guilt began its revival. He turned to the section where he guessed it might be. The dates, they would help. Two years back. There were a handful of entries in April, some in May. Sam took a deep breath and held it. He slowly turned the pages for June, his eyes scanning the words, searching, searching, searching. They stopped. There it was. The single name that held the power to drop Sam to his knees. Shaw. In Maggie’s handwriting. Nikki Shaw. Sam forced himself to read the words surrounding the name. Maggie knew.

  “Oh, Maggie. I am so sorry.” Agony filled Sam’s broken voice. “I never wanted you to know.”

  Maggie sat on the leather ottoman, facing him, listening to a confession she didn’t want to hear. She hadn’t been certain her husband had been unfaithful, so she chose to bury her suspicion, forced herself to forget it. But now her means of surviving that painful period betrayed her as the truth forced her denial to the surface. Rage pierced her, bringing into perfect focus all the clues that had once seemed so blurred. She thought it strange when a new detective joined the division, yet Sam rarely mentioned it. The topic usually consumed his conversation for weeks as he talked about training, the new guy’s potential, rookie mistakes. And the few times she asked about the new guy, Sam referred only to “Shaw,” and his comments were always brief.

  Then, a couple months later, Maggie stopped by the department unannounced and found Sam reclined in his chair behind the desk, an attractive young female facing him, leaning against his desk, too close. Her caramel hair, swept over her left shoulder, led Maggie’s eyes to the opening in her blouse that begged for one more button to be fastened. Guilt surfaced on Sam’s face when he saw Maggie. She recalled their heated discussion that evening, and finally, Sam convincing her she was acting like a jealous teenager. In hindsight, Maggie was sure he told a version of the truth. Nothing had happened between Sam and Nikki Shaw—yet. But now she was certain she knew when it did, a month later when Sam flew to Atlanta for a conference. Maggie suspected he wasn’t going alone. She journaled about her fears and that she wouldn’t force Sam to choose. Was she being noble, or was she a coward? Should she fight for a man who desired another woman?

  But Maggie
thought she didn’t have to fight, because two days later Sam returned from Atlanta a different man. Being a father became important to him, and he adored Maggie like he hadn’t in years. She was convinced that if a rendezvous had been planned, he didn’t go through with it. She also convinced herself that if he had, she was partly to blame. On her own list of commitments, her marriage had fallen to the bottom. Her growing business required nurturing, as did the girls. Maggie had a house to manage and commitments at church. She had no time for herself and less time for her marriage, which had settled into an exhausting routine that Maggie accepted as normal. So, when she pictured the striking Nikki Shaw leaning against her husband’s desk, sending signals that Maggie no longer sent, how could she blame him for being tempted? She couldn’t.

  But now she could blame him for acting on the temptation. As Maggie exhumed the past, it didn’t lessen the shock of sitting in front of Sam, listening to his confession. The betrayal she once feared, that she had exiled to a desolate place in her heart, threatened to rise from the darkness. Until Maggie shifted her focus to her husband’s face. His eyes were closed and tears formed a continuous, silent stream down his cheeks.

  Maggie sighed as she watched guilt devour any part of Sam that managed to survive the past weeks. Suddenly, her anger, which she knew was justified, dissipated as if it had exceeded its expiration date.

  “Oh, Sam. What does it matter now?” Maggie moved from the ottoman and kneeled in front of him. She pressed her hands on his thighs, trying to communicate the intensity of what she was saying. “Besides, the last two years of our marriage were the best. We found each other again. And if it took an affair to do that, well, then shame on both of us.” Maggie wished her words could reach Sam, but as she watched him suffer, she knew they were wasted in the empty air.

  Suddenly, resolve came over his face. Maggie sat back as he stood and walked to the chest of drawers. From on top, he took a leather shoulder holster and fastened it around his shoulders. He reached for the sport coat hanging from the doorknob. Then he unlocked the top drawer of the chest and removed two items. The pistol he secured in the holster. The badge he shoved into the inside front coat pocket.