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What was supposed to be a love declaration sounded more like a weak consolation.
Ellis, who rounds the corner with a pink hardhat and safety jacket, stops in his tracks. He shoots me a panicked look.
“She’s fine,” I say. “Just a little weak spell.”
Lina wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, fighting to regain her composure.
“Say, isn’t that…?” Ellis walks closer and peers at her shoulder where her jacket has slipped away. “Holy macaroni, Lina. You take loyalty to new extremes.” He whistles. “I’m impressed.”
Wrong thing to say at the wrong time.
“I have to visit the ladies. Excuse me.”
Lina runs off toward the sign for the toilets, not sparing either of us a glance.
Ellis scratches his head. “Was it something I said?”
“No.” I watch the door close behind my wife with a burning sensation of regret. “It’s me.”
Damian
Our marriage will never be normal, but we fall into the closest thing to a normal routine. Lina tends to the garden and cooking when she’s not house hunting while I throw all my energy back into the business of mining. Well, almost all my energy. I’m still gathering evidence against the Willowbrook staff and looking for Dalton. The latter has disappeared from the face of the earth. I underestimated him. There is one sliver of light in the midst of my failed attempts to smoke Dalton out. The jail connection I employed to gather information on the late Jack Clarke’s household staff traced Clarke’s former housekeeper to an obscure little village in Switzerland. Dora Riley immigrated around the time of Clarke’s death. At the age of sixty-seven, without any Swiss family, it seems off. She has no telephone number or email listed. All I have is an address.
I don’t tell Lina the reason for my so-called business trip. It could be a false lead. I put more guards on duty around the house and give Brink strict orders to call me if Lina needs anything. Then I honor my feisty wife’s wish by kissing her goodbye before boarding the plane.
Lina
I find a house. The minute I walk through the door, I know it’s the right place. It’s a Tudor style cottage on the banks of the Vaal River with a small jetty and a wooden deck. It’s much smaller than the house in Erasmuskloof, but it’s cozy. The big windows let in lots of sunlight. It’s a house in which I can breathe and relax, a house made for living. I make an appointment for Damian to visit it as soon as his schedule allows and ask Brink to drive us home. We make it back with enough time to spare for grocery shopping at one of my favorite malls.
We head straight for Food Lover’s Emporium, but a window display pulls my attention. Slowing my steps, I come to a stop in front of a toy store. My heart clenches painfully. A wooden train with blue and red wagons passes under a yellow bridge. The scene is static, like a snapshot. I’m hurled back in time to a different snapshot when Dora served my meal on a tray lined with an old supermarket sales brochure. It was just before Christmas. When I’d eaten like an animal with my hands tied behind my back so Jack could laugh and call me a dog, the soiled brochure was left on the floor. Later, after I’d earned my scar, I picked up the brochure. Not having had access to reading material, I read anything I could get my hands on. The train was on the second page. It was black and electric with an infinity track. There were hills and pine trees and bridges. It was so pretty. So perfect. A boy knelt next to the track, his eyes bright and his hands clasped together. I’d put my hand over the place where my baby was growing, already knowing I’d skipped two periods, but still able to conceal it from Jack. I wanted the promise in that brochure so badly, the happy train with its lucky boy. I wanted the white paper world with its snow and fairy lights. I wanted that baby. I wanted him with all my soul.
A sound escapes my lips. It’s a horrible sound, one only an animal can make.
“Mrs. Hart?” Brink touches my shoulder.
I jerk at the contact. My voice is choked as I dash toward the entrance, escaping my past and postponing the future, even if only for a short while. My voice cracks on the syllables. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“Mrs. Hart.”
He waves a credit card at me, but I shake my head, biting back uncontrollable emotions and stepping aside for an elderly lady to enter. The sliding doors close behind us. The voices and hurried steps of the passersby disappear. A smell of tinsel fills the air. I’m shut inside the world of brochures where snow is warm and children are safe while Brink looks in from a crueler reality outside.
