Out of Time (Nine Minutes #2) (43 page)

“I do understand it and I do accept it.” He smiled warmly at her. But he couldn’t deny that his heart suffered a small blow.

As if reading his mind, she quickly added, “And yes, Leslie did miss the real love story. The real love story is the one I’m living now.”

She grabbed both of his hands in hers, there on the floor of the office. “Did I have a real love story with Grizz, too? Yes, I did, in spite of the stupid Stockholm Syndrome accusations. But I guess my story with him ended when he told me to marry you, Tommy. You are the only love story there is now, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t have one before you. Does that make sense?”

He breathed a sigh of relief. That was what he’d really wanted to know, anyway. That she loved him now. He had subconsciously wanted to hear that her love for Grizz wasn’t real to her. As much as it hurt to hear about her feelings for Grizz, at least he could appreciate her honesty. He knew she was telling him the truth about her love for him in the present.

It was more honesty than he’d given her for most of their marriage.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she said then. “Moe’s journal. I haven’t read it yet. Do I even need to?”

It was time. He knew they’d be listening, and he’d been waiting for this moment. He was glad she’d brought it up so he didn’t have to figure out a way to work it into the conversation.

“I don’t think you need to read it if you trust me to tell you the highlights.”

She frowned, but he added, “I know you’re worried about trusting me, but you really don’t need to read it. I can tell you everything.”

“Okay, then. Tell me what you think I need to know.”

“For starters, you had nothing to feel guilty about. Moe didn’t kill herself. It was an accidental overdose. She’d been writing about how she’d been having difficulty sleeping and kept taking more and more pills to help with it. She was so little, Gin, I guess her body couldn’t handle it.”

He wasn’t being completely truthful. Yet. He couldn’t tell her that Moe committed suicide because she felt guilty for helping someone named Wendy set up Ginny’s attack. He would’ve felt like he had to spill it all. The whole Sarah Jo being Wendy thing. He would definitely tell her all of it. But not yet. It was too soon and there were still too many emotional bruises. The counseling they’d agreed to get would help. He would have to wait.

“Really? Are you serious, Tommy?”

“Yes, Ginny. I’m serious. It had nothing to do with feeling guilty about having the dogs that night. Yes, she felt bad. She mentioned that a few times. But she didn’t kill herself because of it.”

“I’m so relieved to hear that! I’ve had enough guilt of my own over the years about different things. It’s a miserable feeling. I almost envy that Grizz never seemed to feel guilty about some stuff. Lots of stuff, actually.”

“Oh, and this you might find interesting. When Jan told you why Grizz cut Moe’s tongue out because of a comment she made about me? Not true.”

“What?” Ginny practically shouted.

“Nope, Moe saw Grizz with some gussied-up fancy dude in a suit and told him about it.”

“And he cut her tongue out? That can’t be right!” Ginny replied, the doubt in her voice obvious.

“Think about it, Ginny. It was the late sixties. He was starting to make his drug connections with the South American Cartel. She was a blabbermouth. He really probably thought he was doing her a favor. He concocted the blow job story for everybody else, including Blue.”

“I’m sorry to have to admit this, but yes, I can see Grizz doing that.” She shook her head then as if waking from a dream. “So what do we do with it? Do we save it, turn it in to the police? Find Moe’s remaining family and give it to them?”

“Can I make a suggestion, Gin?”

“Of course, Tommy. What should we do with it?”

“Tomorrow is garbage day. I say we throw it away.”

Chapter Seventy-Four

2000

Ginny felt oddly
elated as she sat idling at a red light on her way to Carter’s house. She’d watched Tommy the next morning as he’d ceremoniously tossed Moe’s journal into the kitchen garbage and, after tying it up, walked it to the curb. She thought about the church ceremony and honeymoon that followed. She thought about the counseling sessions they’d been going to regularly. They were helping, and she was glad that Tommy had suggested it. She even thought about the tiny black kitten that had shown up when they’d arrived home from their honeymoon. The black kitten that had been creating havoc in her home ever since. She smiled.

She was still enjoying her seventies music and had reached blindly into her purse to dig for a pack of gum she knew she had in there somewhere. She felt something at the bottom of her purse and was trying to figure out what it was when it appeared in her hand. She stared for a minute and just smiled. She brought it to her lips and gently kissed it.

“Goodbye, my love,” she whispered. “I guess I must’ve still had it in my hand the night Casey found me in the garage.”

She didn’t remember shoving it in her purse, but she probably had. She lifted her right hip and slid Grizz’s blue bandana into the back pocket of her jeans. She would return it to the motorcycle in Carter’s garage. Where it belonged.

The morning traffic was worse than she expected, and forty-five minutes later she pulled into her old driveway. Carter was off to the side doing something with the animals. She waved as she approached. Carter let herself out of the gate and told Ginny, “You got a delivery today.”

“A delivery?” Ginny gave her a quick hug. “Here? Are you sure it’s for me?”

“Yeah, it says Kit on it. I’m assuming it’s for you.”

Ginny stopped in her tracks. Carter knew her old gang name, but she hadn’t gone by Kit in fifteen years.

“C’mon,” Carter urged. “I can stay with you while you open it, if you want.”

“Who delivered it?” Ginny asked as she followed Carter inside.

“Couldn’t tell you. I found it this morning on the porch.” Carter closed the door behind them. She snagged the package from the coffee table and gently placed it in Ginny’s hands. It was wrapped in brown paper with “Kit” written in black marker on the top. Ginny didn’t recognize the handwriting and couldn’t imagine who’d delivered it.

Slowly she removed the brown paper, then fell onto Carter’s couch with a plop, her mouth open.

“It’s my Bible!” Ginny said incredulously. “It’s my Bible from when I was just a little girl.”

She smiled then and opened it, noticing her name where she had written it in bold block letters: Guinevere Love Lemon.

“I wonder who’s had this. I wonder why whoever had it never gave it to me before.”

Carter sat next to her. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s actually kind of a nice surprise. I’m shocked, but glad to see it. It’s like—like running into an old friend.” She’d thought about Grizz’s chess set and jacket showing up. The kitten with the missing king. Even Moe’s journal. What else might show up?

She shook the thought off. She didn’t do dark and she wouldn’t start now. Not when she was so close to starting over.

“Do you want something to drink?” Carter was asking. “I’m dying of thirst.”

“No, I’m not thirsty, but I may be later. I want to make a serious dent cleaning out the garage by the end of the day.”

Carter broke into a wide grin. “Good for you.” She stood then. “I’m getting my drink and heading out back. Call me if you need me?”

“I will,” Ginny told her friend.

She leaned back on the sofa and gently fanned through the pages when she realized something was stuck between them. She took out some papers. An old school picture was paper-clipped to them. She stared at it. The picture didn’t invoke any good memories. She would throw it away.

Then she noticed the rest of the papers and spotted Delia’s handwriting immediately. It wasn’t hard to recognize. She’d learned how to emulate it perfectly when she handled the family’s finances. It used to be slightly shaky, but this handwriting was neat and precise. It was definitely Delia’s, though.

Ginny had a hard time calming her own shaking hands so she could read what was carefully written on the old notebook paper, now slightly yellow with age:

My Dear Ginny,

Where do I begin? Where do I even begin to tell you what you have deserved to know from the very beginning?

I should probably start with your father. I wasn’t living in a commune when I got pregnant with you. I know you always believed that. That was only one of many lies I fabricated. I was actually married to a man I was deeply in love with. You were conceived in love, Ginny, but it went horribly wrong and I blame myself.

Your father’s name was David Dunn and my name was Alice Crespin. We married right out of high school and were working our way through college. It wasn’t easy, but we were young and motivated and excited about our future. We wanted to wait until after we graduated to have a baby, but we were both elated when we found out I was pregnant.

I don’t remember exactly how it started, but your father was invited to a student rally at the college. It was a time when nuclear weapons were being protested. I remember him telling me he didn’t want to raise a child in a world that wasn’t safe. He started getting more and more involved in politics and the rallies and protests. I adored your father and I went along with him to some of them, but I was so wrapped up in work and studying and my pregnancy that I didn’t realize how truly involved he’d become. I didn’t see it in time to save him. To save us.

It was a total surprise when you and your sister were born almost two months early. We didn’t know we were having two babies. We were afraid we were going to lose both of you, but in spite of your size, you were a fighter. You had to stay in the hospital for almost two months before we were finally able to bring you home. Your sister was much smaller and had to stay longer.

You were only home for a few days when your father came home from work one night and told me he was going back out. He picked you up out of your bassinet and told you he was going to do something important. He was going to do something that would make the world a better place to raise his beautiful daughters, Josie and Jodi.

You were named after my parents. My father was Joseph and my mother was Diana. That’s your real name, Josephine Diana. We called you Josie.

I’m smiling as I write this. Your sister’s name was a little more challenging. Your father’s father was Jedediah. We spent days trying to shorten the name Jedediah. We couldn’t so we named her Jodi Marie. Marie was your father’s mother’s name.

As God is my witness, I didn’t know what your father was really going to do that night. When I asked him if it was another protest, he just handed you to me and smiled. I never saw him or your sister again.

I was woken up that night around midnight by banging on our door. I was shocked to find two men I knew from the protests. They told me something had gone horribly wrong. The group had been planning to make a big statement. They had planted a bomb in the college library. They didn’t want anyone to get hurt, so they made sure to do it at night when nobody would be around. They hadn’t known some students were given permission to use the library after hours to hold a study session. Your father realized it too late and ran back in to warn them. Your father, along with seven students, were killed in the blast.

The two men that came to the house told me I needed to leave. I needed to pack up and move before they identified your father. They said they were going home to get their things and get out of town, and if I didn’t want to go to prison and have my babies taken away, I should, too. I was too stunned to even answer them. What could your father have been thinking? Didn’t he realize that even if nobody had been killed, bombing a school was serious and the authorities knew about the protests? It would’ve only been a matter of time before they made the connection. I was angry at him, not fully taking in the fact that he was dead.

But then I started to get scared. I did pack you up. I took a small file that contained our personal information. Our marriage and birth certificates, social security and school identifications. I took what little cash we had and walked to the closest bus stop. I carried you, a diaper bag and a small suitcase. I left everything else behind, including your sister. I would’ve gone straight to the hospital to get her, but she was still too little. It would’ve been the same as signing her death warrant. She was too small to live outside the incubator.

I had a horrible choice to make that night. To risk losing both of my children or just one. I chose the latter.

I don’t remember how many days I spent switching buses. I ended up in Miami and slowly started to rebuild our lives. Your father and I didn’t have any family to turn to. I was afraid and I was alone, except for you. It didn’t take me too long to establish a new identity as Delia Lemon. I found a low paying job and an elderly lady to care for you while I worked.

I thought I was doing okay for a while, Ginny. Then something changed. I was miserable, exhausted and lonely. I remember holding you one day and you messed in your last clean diaper. I was sitting in a hot, cramped, one-room dump without a clean diaper in sight, and something in me snapped. I looked into your eyes and I remembered what your father said the last night he was alive. He said that he was doing it for his daughters. He was doing it for you and Jodi, and she was gone from my life.

So I blamed you. I convinced myself I had been forced into the life I now had, a life on the run, because of what your father supposedly did for you. Looking back, I was naïve. I’m certain I could’ve gone to the authorities and told them I hadn’t been involved. The men who came to the door that night were probably there to scare me away so I wouldn’t implicate them. Still, I convinced myself I was guilty by association and didn’t want to go to prison.

Something happened that day. Something I have regretted every single day since my sobriety, but not something I knew I should’ve been regretting then. I left you alone in your dirty diaper, walked to the closest liquor store, and bought something to drink. Something to numb the pain. The pain of losing your father, your sister, and the life we knew. And even worse, I allowed myself to blame it on an innocent baby girl. You.

That was the beginning of the end, and I don’t need to tell you how the rest of your life played out. You were living in a nightmare and probably didn’t even know it. You were always a happy, positive child, and it only made me hate and resent you more. What kind of woman can hate her own child? I treated you as badly as I could and you persevered. You never stooped to my level.

You’re probably wondering why I never abandoned you. Just got rid of you. I’ve had time to reflect on that and I’m ashamed to say that looking back, it was because I saw you as my excuse to wallow in my addictions. You were the reminder that told me it was okay to continue drinking and doing drugs. You were the cause of my pain and I deserved to get stoned and drunk.

I remember thinking that if the authorities were looking for me, they would’ve been looking for a woman with a daughter your age named Josephine. It was then that I started calling you Guinevere. I can’t even remember how I came up with that name. I’m certain it was during a time I was experimenting with the heavier drugs. I was using LSD by the time I’d met Vince. He was the only reason I stopped. And even then I hadn’t stopped completely. I was still doing some heavier drugs even after we were married.

When I finally made the move to Fort Lauderdale, two years had passed that you should’ve been in school. I had a fake birth certificate made for you with the name Guinevere and a false birth date. You were always small and had grown only a little by the time I enrolled you in kindergarten. Even though you were seven, you easily passed as a five-year-old, and nobody questioned it.

You pretty much raised yourself from that point on. I was relieved when food showed up on our doorstep. A normal parent would’ve been grateful. Maybe even a little embarrassed. Not me.

Even though I was horrible, and I can admit it, I still never sent Johnny Tillman to rape you. He was supposed to scare you. He was supposed to tell you to back off the Steve Marcus thing. After you figured out what Marcus was doing to his kid, he came to me and threatened me. He knew I was growing and selling pot, but worse, he had someone break into our house. I had gotten rid of our real birth certificates and other identification years earlier, but I kept my marriage license, and they stole it and did some digging. Marcus told me he would expose me. I would go to prison as an accessory to murder or worse because it was a bombing, I would be tried in a federal court and the sentence would be that much more severe.

And just so you know, Vince was never part of that. He didn’t know I sent Johnny Tillman to our house that night. Ginny, I’m sorry for not even being nice to you after it happened. A real mother would’ve comforted her daughter. A real mother wouldn’t have asked her how she could’ve done something so dumb. A real mother wouldn’t have sent a monster to scare you.

Looking back, a real mother wouldn’t have bullied her daughter into going on the birth control pill. By then you had found such comfort in your church, and I even tried to take that away from you. I knew birth control was against the Catholic faith, but I made you take it, anyway. I think I was jealous of your happiness and faith, and I tried to ruin that, too, by forcing something on you I knew you would feel guilty about. I couldn’t stand to see you happy. I can see now that Johnny Tillman wasn’t the monster. I was.