Chapter Forty-Nine
1
Wendy Jones still felt eyes on her even as she closed the curtains. Just before she lost her view of the outside world with a last tug of the material, she could have sworn that she had caught sight of the little girl she had helped to imprison in the old, woodland building, in the last flash of lightning. She pulled the curtain open a little and stared at the spot where she had been but there was nothing there.
I've got to tell dad, she thought, fear and guilt pulsing through her. I've got to tell him everything. He'll hate me forever but I just can't live with it anymore!
2
Martin Jones clutched his wife's hand as he sat at her bedside. It had been hard enough to get her into bed and harder still to convince her to take the sleeping pills that were working their magic on her at that moment. He could not remember the last time he had seen her looking so at peace.
The next lightning flash brought him out of his trance and he looked down at his watch.
9:46 pm
He could not believe that he had been holding vigil over his beloved for almost an hour. Surely Wendy should be home by now! he thought, getting to his feet. He had been too busy to spend time with her recently, what with his work at the hospital and the worry over Miranda's mental health. With his wife comfortably tucked up in bed he headed out of the room to find his daughter.
3
As soon as she heard the bedroom door click closed Miranda Jones opened her eyes. She listened to her husband's footsteps as he walked along the hall and down the stairs. It was only when she could no longer hear them that she spat the drug infused saliva out of her mouth and into the glass on the bedside table. Martin had sat with her for so long that she had swallowed more than she had wanted to and she had starting to feel the groggy effect from it.
She climbed out of the bed and made her way over to the window on unsteady legs. Through the sheets of thrashing rain, Miranda could just make out the shape of the little girl standing on the corner on the opposite side of the road. The white nightdress clung to her slight frame as the torrent beat down on her but she seemed oblivious to it.
Even from that distance, Miranda could see the face of her little angel. Jane had come home at last. She wanted to call out to her but as she pounded against the glass with her fists, the girl just raised her finger to her lips as if to ask her to remain quiet.
"Stay right there," Miranda whispered through the glass. "I'll come and let you in sweetheart!"
4
Wendy stood in the kitchen and listened to her father's footfalls as he descended the stairs. Everything inside her knotted up tight as she tried to think of how to begin telling him what had happened.
Where should I start? How much should I tell him?
She had promised herself that she would tell him everything, get it all off of her chest but now that she could hear him coming she became a mess of muddled confusion.
Once I tell him he'll hate me forever!
"Wendy, where are you?"
She heard the kindness in his voice and the sting of tears hit her eyes.
"Go into the living room daddy, I'm just making some tea. I'll bring it right through when it's ready." She breathed a sigh of relief as she heard him move away from her and toward the living room.
5
Dr. Jones turned on the radio and his ears were greeted with the happy sound of Vivaldi's, Four Seasons. He turned it up a little then sat in his favourite armchair by the unlit fireplace. He closed his eyes and gently rubbed his fingers against his temples, soothing his headache away whilst allowing the music to make him relax for the first time in ages.
It had been the worst time ever for his family. They all needed a change of scenery and the move to London would give them just that. There were too many bad memories in Eastlake and as far as he was concerned the sooner they were away from the miserable place the better.
He had applied for a position in emergency medicine at St. Thomas's over two months before but never expected to actually land the job. Not long after he was asked if he could start as soon as Dr. Carlson had retired in two months time. He had no problem in saying yes; all he had to do now was tell Miranda and Wendy. He knew that neither of them would be overly thrilled about the move but once he had explained all of the positives he was sure they would understand.
He allowed the soothing sound of Vivaldi to wash over him.
6
Miranda stood on the landing at the top of the stairs and listened to the music playing in the living room. She was impatient - she wanted to get Jane in the house and out of the rain but she couldn't move. It was a while before she realized that she had not been breathing and she silently sucked in a deep breath.
The rattle of bone china on a metal tray came from the kitchen and grew louder as it passed through the downstairs hallway and into the living room. As soon as the voices of her husband and daughter ignited into conversation Miranda found herself released from her trancelike state and silently descended the steps.
7
Wendy was more than happy to let her father lead the conversation. Her mind was still muddled as to where to start, what to say and what parts to leave out.
"It's just a question," her father started before taking a sip from his cup and setting it back down onto its saucer. "But how would you feel about moving?"
The question took her by surprise. She was not sure what she had expected him to say but that question would not have even been on her list.
"Well, what do you think?"
Her father's second question made her realize that she had taken too long to answer the first.
"Moving?" The word scratched her parched throat and she took some tea from her own cup.
"Yes, I have been offered a new post and..."
"You mean leave Eastlake?" Guilt had prevented her from looking at her father before that moment, now she could not tear her gaze away from him. "We can't!"
"Why not? If we leave soon we can get you settled into a..."
"Mum's not fit to travel and what about..." Wendy stopped short. She had to say something, it was burning her up inside. "Daddy, I've done something terrible." Large tears streamed down her cheeks. To tell her story she knew that she would have to start at the very beginning.
8
With wide eyes and an even wider grin, Miranda inched toward the front door.
She had always known that they had lied when they had told her that her little girl had died. She was there right now, out in the rain. She could hear her on the other side of the door, calling, begging to be let in. They had hated her before she had even been born. Neither Wendy or Martin had ever accepted Jane as part of the family.
She wanted to hasten her pace, to get to the door quicker but she felt like she was walking through quicksand.
She and Martin had been drifting apart years before her moment of infidelity with Jim Wilmot. The fact that Wendy had been so young was the only thing that had kept them together as some form of family. She had never expected to cheat on her husband but circumstances arose. Jim had been such a good friend and shoulder to lean on while her husband had been working around the clock and keeping his distance whenever he did come home. Maybe it was true what they said about bartenders being the best listeners.
For a moment Miranda could not move an inch. It was as if her feet were fixed to the floor. She needed to get to the door, needed to get her little girl in and protect her from the elements but she was powerless to move again.
Kate, Jim's wife, had gone to her mother's for the weekend and had taken little Sarah with her. Jim had taken the busy Saturday night off and gone over to Miranda's house armed with a bottle of wine. Wendy was nicely tucked up in bed and Martin was working a double shift at the hospital so they were all alone. One thing led to another and nine months later little Jane was born. Martin had never forgiven her just as Kate had never forgiven Jim.
But that was all in the past. Now her little girl had come home and it was time to welcome her back home. The spell had been broken again and she took another step closer to the door.
Author's Note
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