Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

“I’m surprised you’re letting me see them at all.”

“I told you, I want you to be part of this family. That’s why I asked you to stay with us. You’re a great person. And you’re a terrific role model for Lyn.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Look, let’s forget the other stuff and concentrate on the kids.”

The “other stuff being his missing wife. ”I’ll wait in here.“

Marc sighs and leaves the room.

The truth is, I really don’t know much about Jane and Marc’s relationship. Jane liked to project an image of perfection. They married young, but Marc wanted to postpone having children until he’d put in the years of hundred-hour weeks required for making partner. That worried Jane, who wanted kids almost immediately, more to cement the relationship, I feared at the time, than for the children themselves. But when she finally got them, she proved a wonderful mother, creating the warm, secure environment that she and I had never known.

The sound of the front door opening reaches me, then subdued voices. A society matron’s cigarette-parched drawl rises above the others. “I just don’t think it’s the proper thing to do. They’ve been through too much already.” The muted drone of Marc’s lawyer voice assures his mother that he knows exactly what he’s doing. Then, God help me, comes the patter of small shoes on the hardwood floor, followed by the percussive clack of Marc’s wing tips. I feel more acute anxiety than I have waiting to meet heads of state. The steps grow louder, then stop, but the doorway remains empty.

“Go ahead,” says Marc from somewhere in the hall. “It’s okay.”

Nothing happens.

“She brought pres-ents,” he says in a singsong voice.

A small face appears from behind the door post. Lyn’s face. A physical echo of my own. With her large dark eyes, she looks like a fawn peeking from behind a tree. As her mouth falls open, Henry’s blond hair and blue eyes appear above her. Henry blinks, then disappears. I smile as broadly as I can and hold out my arms. Lyn looks behind her -presumably at her father – then steps into the open and runs to me.

It takes a supreme effort to keep from crying as her little arms wrap around my neck like a drowning child’s and she says, “Mama, mama,” in my ear.

I gently pull her back and look into her wet eyes. “I’m Jordan, sweetie. I’m-”

“She knows,” says Marc, ushering Henry toward me with his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“She said ‘Mama.’”

“Lyn, do you know who this lady is?”

She nods solemnly at me. “You’re Aunt Jordan. I’ve seen your pictures in books.”

“But you said ‘Mama.’”

“You remind me of my mom. She’s gone to heaven to be with God.”

I put my hand over my mouth to hold my composure, and Marc helps out by pushing Henry forward. “This big guy here is Henry, Aunt Jordan.”

“I know that. Hello, Henry.”

“I got a first-place trophy in soccer,” he announces.

“You did ?”

“You want to see it?”

“Of course I do. But I brought you a present. Would you like to see that first?”

He looks back at his father for permission.

“Let’s see it,” Marc says.

I point to the wrapped package by the door. “Are you big enough to open that, Henry?”

“YEAH!”

He practically attacks the package, and in seconds exposes a hardcover book-sized box that says “Panasonic.”

“It’s a DVD player, Dad! Look! One for the car!”

“A little extravagant, isn’t it?” says Marc, arching an eyebrow at me.

“That’s a maiden aunt’s privilege.”

“Looks that way.”

Lyn is standing quietly at my knee, watching me. She doesn’t even ask if I got her anything.

“And this is for you,” I tell her, handing her the smaller box from the foot of the chair.

“What is it?”

“Look inside.”

She carefully removes the bow and sets it aside, and by this simple act breaks my heart again. She learned that frugal habit from Jane, as Jane learned it from our mother. My sister lives on in ways large and small. At last the box becomes visible, and Lyn studies it intently.

“What is it?”

“Let’s see if you can figure it out. Can you read the box?”

“Nick on? Nikon? Coolpix. Nine-nine-zero.”

“Perfect! Let me get it out for you.” I open the box, remove the foam from the odd-shaped plastic housing, and hand it to her. “What do you think it is?”

She studies the two-piece body, then focuses on the small lens.

“Is it a camera?”

“Yes.”

Her lips pucker in an unreadable expression. “Is it a kid’s camera, or a grown-up camera?”

“It’s a grown-up camera. A very good one. You have to be careful while you learn to use it. Wear the strap so you don’t drop it. But don’t be too careful. It’s only a tool. What’s important is your eyes, and what you see in your head. The camera just helps you show other people what you see. Do you understand?”

She nods slowly, her eyes bright.

“Dad!” cries Henry. “There’s two DVDs in here! Iron Giant and El Dorado!”

“Are you really spending the night with us tonight?” asks Lyn.

“I am.”

“Will you teach me how to use this?”

“I sure will. The pictures from this camera go into a computer before they go onto paper. I’ll bet you have a computer.”

“My dad has one.”

“We’ll just borrow his until he gets you your own. Right, Dad?”

Marc shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Right. Okay, who’s ready for supper?”

“Did you actually cook?”

“Are you kidding? Annabelle!”

After thirty seconds or so, the clicking of heels comes up the hallway, followed by an elderly black woman’s voice. “What you hollerin‘ about, Mr. Lacour?”

“How’s supper coming?”

“Almost ready.”

Annabelle appears in the doorway, not heavy and slow like I pictured her, but thin and tall and efficient. She has a warm smile on her face until her eyes settle on me. It fades instantly, replaced by a mix of wonder and fear.

“Annabelle, this is Jordan,” says Marc.

“Lord, I see that,” she says softly. “Child, you the spittin‘ image of…” She glances at the kids and trails off. As though impelled against her will, Annabelle advances across the room until she’s standing over me. I reach up and take her hand, and she squeezes mine with remarkable strength. “God bless you,” she says. Then she goes to Henry and Lyn, bends nearly double, gives each a hug, and walks back to the door.

“You can go on when supper’s done,” Marc says. “Have a good night.”

“Soon as I get the biscuits out the oven,” she says in a faraway voice, “I’ll be gone home.”

When she disappears, I say, “I didn’t think they still made them like that.”

“You’ve been out of the South too long,” Marc replies. “Annabelle’s the best. This family couldn’t function without her. I think you gave her a shock, though.”

By the time we reach the dining room, the table is laden with food. A pork loin with what smells like honey-and-brown-sugar glaze, cheese grits, cat-head biscuits, and a token salad. After months of Asian food, these smells from childhood nearly overwhelm my senses. Jane is everywhere around me. She and I were raised knowing nothing of fine china, so naturally she spent months deciding on the fine old Royal Doulton pattern that sits before me now. Same with the Waterford crystal and Reed amp; Barton silver.

“It looks terrific, doesn’t it?” I tell Henry. “Here, come sit by me. Lyn, you sit on this side.”

“But your setting’s at the end of the table,” she says, pointing.