Crimson Rain. Meg O'Brien
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tentatively, unwilling to commit to an actual meeting, but hoping she would be here, nonetheless.
“Maybe,” she said. “I stop by after work now and then.” She touched him on the cheek with a fingernail that was bright red, like her lips. “We’ll see.”
That had been in August. Four short months ago, but he felt, now, as if he’d known her forever.
Their first conversation had carefully skirted personal information. Instead, they had talked about Microsoft, the Huskies, the Mariners, Boeing, the traffic…endless minutiae. In succeeding talks he told her about Gina and Rachel. She told him she had moved to Seattle in June and was working temp jobs. It had been difficult at first, but now she was established with one particular temp company, and in demand as an assistant to local CEOs. She living frugally, but was doing all right.
She seemed to want nothing from him but companionship, and that eased Paul’s mind about what he was doing. By the time a month had passed, however, Paul couldn’t tear himself away from the three- or four-times-a-week meetings at Gordon Biersch’s. He began to tell Gina he was working late, and she had accepted that.
But then, why wouldn’t she? he thought now as he looked across the table at his wife. He had never before given her any reason to doubt him.
And here she was, holding the family together as usual over the holiday—keeping the traditions and maintaining a brave facade for Rachel, even though she must know, as he did, that their marriage was falling apart.
Or was it a facade? Had Gina actually convinced herself there was nothing wrong? Was it possible she couldn’t see how much their relationship had deteriorated?
There were times when Paul hated himself for the betrayal of his wife, and he prayed for the strength to end it.
“Can we decorate the tree tonight?” Rachel asked from the back seat as Paul swung the Infiniti into the driveway. “That tea really hyped me up.”
Gina restrained a yawn. “Oh, I don’t know…”
“C’mon, Mom. Talk her into it, Dad.”
They had left the tree standing in a bucket of water in the front bay window of the house, facing the Sound and the city. When it was decorated and lit, it looked “awesome,” as Rachel said every year, when they drove up the hill.
“We’ve still got two more days till Christmas,” Paul said, wanting only to go to bed. “Can’t it wait?”
“Boy, you two are party poopers this year.” Rachel pouted. She slid from the car and ran up the front steps. “Last one in has to untangle the lights!”
She slid her key into the lock and disappeared through the doorway. Lights appeared in the hallway and living room. Gina looked at Paul and shrugged. “What do you think?”
He sighed. “At least she’s smiling now. I was beginning to think—”
“I know what you mean,” Gina said. “She’s been a bear this trip.”
“Maybe we can convince her just to put on the lights tonight. You think she’d be okay with that?”
“We can give it a try,” Gina said.
Rachel’s cry from inside hit them as they came up the walk. “Mom! Dad!”
Gina and Paul ran the rest of the way, following Rachel’s voice into the living room. There they found the Christmas tree lying on its side, a pool of water surrounding it. The bucket lay empty on the hardwood floor.
Gina rushed forward, whipping off her woolen scarf and kneeling, trying to mop up the water before it did any more damage to the wood. “For God’s sake, Paul, I told you to make sure the tree was secure enough so it couldn’t fall!”
“I did,” he said, bristling at the criticism. “I’ll go get some towels.”
“Never mind. Rachel, get me that throw cover over there.”
Gina motioned to a heavy throw lying over a chair, but Rachel didn’t move. Her face was pale as she stared at the tree, her eyes dark and frightened.
“Rachel?” Gina’s tone was one of concern more than irritation, but Rachel’s head snapped up and she took a step backward.
“Don’t touch me! Get back!” Her hands rose as if to protect herself.
Gina started, and Paul stopped in his tracks to stare at his daughter.
“Rachel?” he said softly. “Rach, it’s okay.”
Gina rose slowly and moved carefully toward her daughter. “Shh. Shh, honey, it’s all right.”
Rachel’s gaze rose from the fallen tree to her mother. For a moment she barely moved. Then her face crumpled and tears filled her eyes. “It’s not all right!” she cried. “Nothing is ever going to be all right again!”
3
The next day, Rachel sat across from the psychiatrist who had treated her from the ages of six to sixteen. Victoria Lessing was older, of course, her hair graying now, but only a bit at the temples. Otherwise it was the same pale blond, pulled back into a twist. She still had that look in her violet eyes, too—the one that said, I know your every thought. You can’t hide a thing from me.
“It’s been a while, Rachel.”
Rachel sighed. “You said it. I thought we were through with all this.”
“Well, your parents are worried.”
Rachel gave a shrug.
“You don’t think they should be?”
“No. I just had some bad memories last night. After all, today is Christmas Eve. I think that’s pretty normal.”
“Normal being a relative term,” the psychiatrist said, smiling.
“I suppose.” Rachel fell silent.
“Have you been thinking more about your sister lately?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said. “Maybe.”
“Do you know why?”
“No.”
“I think you do,” Victoria said softly.
Rachel shrugged again. “I just thought I saw her, once. At Berkeley.”
Victoria leaned forward, resting her arms on her desk. “Really?”
“Well, I was walking around on the campus, and there was this woman. She had dark hair like Angela’s and mine, and…oh, I don’t know. There was just something about the way she looked at me.”
“Did you think she was following you?”
Rachel narrowed her eyes. “You mean, am I getting paranoid again?”
“No. I didn’t mean that at all.”
“But you were thinking it. Rachel’s imagining things again.”
“No, I was not,” Victoria said firmly. “You were a lot younger when you had nightmares that Angela would come back. Now that you’re older, I’m sure you know the difference between being paranoid and feeling something real.”
“Well, I didn’t think this woman was following me, anyway. I just thought it was odd, the way she looked at me. I thought maybe Angela—” Rachel stopped talking and studied her hands.
“You thought that because she was your twin, she might have ended up at the same college as you,” Victoria guessed. “The way identical twins who are separated seem to do similar things in life?”
“I…yes. I guess the thought crossed my mind.”
“Of course you and Angela aren’t identical.”
“No.