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Skye brought her left hand to her temple. If that was true, why did her mother act so weird about it?
Her mother touched Skye’s hair, lightly stroking. “What’s wrong, honey?”
She tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes.
“I keep trying to remember where I saw this ‘M.’ There has to be a reason I’m always drawing it. There has to be.”
“I can’t imagine, darling.” Her mother smiled, though the curving of her lips looked forced to Skye. “It’s just one of those things.”
“One of those things,” Skye repeated, then frowned and returned her gaze to the sketch pad. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does.” Claire shrugged. “You saw the monogram somewhere and remembered it.”
“But where?” Skye balled her hands into fists, frustrated, hating the darkness of her memory and the feeling of helplessness she experienced every time she tried to remember.
Like now. Skye drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory for a recollection of anything before kindergarten, for a glimmer of where she had been born or of her father. They were linked to the “M”; she was certain of it.
But how?
She dropped her face into her hands, head pounding. Why couldn’t she remember? Why?
“Sweetheart, please…” Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her hands in hers. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Let it go.”
But it did matter. Skye knew it did. Otherwise she wouldn’t find herself drawing that letter again and again.
“I can’t,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes. “I want to, I really do. But I just…can’t”
Her mother put her arms around her and drew her against her chest. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” Skye rubbed her forehead against her mother’s shoulder, the pain behind her eyes intensifying. “Are you proud of me, Mom? Are you glad I’m…I’m the way I am?”
Her mother tipped her face up and looked her in the eyes. “How can you even ask, Skye? I’m more proud of you than you can imagine.”
But not of her artistic ability, Skye thought, searching her mother’s gaze. Her mother wished she didn’t like art so much, that she wasn’t so good at it. She wished her daughter would never pick up a drawing pencil again.
Why?
Skye whimpered and brought a hand to her head.
“It’s one of your headaches, isn’t it?” Claire eased Skye out of her arms and stood. “I’ll get your medicine.”
A moment later her mother returned with two white tablets and a glass of water. Skye took them, then handed the half-full glass back to her mother. Past experience had taught them both that if they caught the headache early enough, Skye could beat it. If they didn’t, the pain could become nearly unbearable.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Claire bent and kissed the top of Skye’s head. “Why don’t you lie down for a minute. I’ll finish making lunch, then come see how you’re feeling.”
Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Will you stay a minute? And rub my head?”
“Sure, sweetie. Scoot over.”
Skye did and her mother sat on the edge of the bed and began softly stroking her forehead. With each pass of her mother’s hand, Skye’s pain lessened. Each time she stopped, it returned, full force. And with it the questions that pounded at her.
“Feel a little better?” her mother asked.
“A little. Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“My dad didn’t want me, did he?”
Her mother caught her breath. “What kind of question is that? Of course he wanted you.”
“You don’t have to lie to me. I know how it works. You probably didn’t even know who my father was.”
“That’s not true! Of course I know who—”
“Then why aren’t there any pictures of him!” Skye caught her mother’s hand, desperate, the pain blinding. “And why won’t you talk about him?” She tightened her fingers. “Please. Just tell me, Mom. I won’t cry. I’m not a baby anymore.”
For long moments her mother said nothing, just gazed at the floor, her expression troubled. Finally, she met Skye’s eyes once more. “He wanted you, Skye. I promise you that. But we can talk about this later. You need to rest—”
“No! Mom, I want to talk about it now. Please.” Skye squeezed her mother’s fingers. “If he really wanted me, where is he? What happened to him?”
“What happened to him?” her mother repeated, her voice sounding high and tight. She freed her hand, stood and took a step backward, toward the door. “I told you before. He’s dead.”
“Yes, but…how? What happened?”
“It was an accident.” Her mother reached the door. “I’ve told you that before, too.”
“What kind of accident was it? A car crash? A fire?” Skye lifted herself to an elbow and gazed pleadingly at her mother. She saw her mother’s hesitation, her wavering, and pressed her further. “Where did it happen? Was I there? Were you?”
For a moment her mother said nothing, then she cleared her throat. “It was very ugly. I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe someday.”
Her mother was lying to her, hiding something. But what? And why? A lump in her throat, Skye shifted her gaze to her sketch tablet and the curvy “M.”
Why wouldn’t her mother trust her with the truth? What could be so ugly that her mother…
“Did someone kill him?” she asked, eyes widening. “Is that it? Was he…murdered?”
Her mother made a sound, squeaky and high. She shifted her gaze, as with guilt, and Skye’s heart began to pound. “Was it the mob? Is the mob after us, too?”
“Don’t be silly.” Claire smiled stiffly. “It was an accident and nothing—”
“That’s why we’re always moving, isn’t it?” Excited, Skye sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. “Just like in the movies, we’re on the run from the mob!”
“That’s enough, Skye!” her mother’s voice rose. “I don’t want to hear any more of this ridiculous talk. Do you hear me? No more.”
Tears flooded Skye’s eyes, and she flopped back to the mattress, rolling onto her side and turning her back to her mother. “Forget it. Just go away. After all, I need my rest.”
Claire sighed. “Your father wasn’t a nice man, honey. And his family…” Her words faltered, and she drew what sounded to Skye like a careful breath. “I’ll only say that I’m glad they’re out of our lives forever. That’s why I don’t like to talk about them.”
Heart pounding, Skye turned and looked at her mother. “What do you mean, he wasn’t…nice? Did he, you know…did he hit you?”
Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Oh.” Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth, the pressure in her head almost unbearable. “Did he…hit me?”
“No. But—” She bent and cupped Skye’s face in her palms. “When we were with him, I was afraid for you.”
Skye swallowed hard. “Is that why you won’t even tell me where I was born?”
“Yes. I—” Claire sighed again and bent her forehead to Skye’s. “Trust me, sweetheart. When you’re older, I’ll tell you more.”
“Promise?”
She nodded, then smiled. “Our soup’s probably boiled over by now. I’d better check it.”
Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Mom? Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to have…you know, a real family? To live in one place and not…”
Her words trailed off at the sadness in her mother’s eyes.
“Yes,” Claire answered softly. “Sometimes I wish that with all my heart. This isn’t the life I wanted for you. It’s not the way I wanted you to grow up.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t have—”
Her throat closed over the words, and she cleared it. “I didn’t have that growing up and I always thought how nice it would be.”
Her mother had been an orphan. Skye couldn’t imagine that. She couldn’t imagine not having her mother. She would die without her. Feeling guilty for having brought up the subject, she hugged her. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I bugged you about…you know.”
“Yes, I know.” Her mother stroked her hair again. “Sometimes the truth hurts, baby. Sometimes it’s better not to know the truth.”
Skye tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes. Something in them, something dark and terrifying, made her tremble. “What is it, Mom? What do you see?”
Her mother pressed her lips to her forehead. “It’s only the past. And the past can’t hurt us as long as we make it stay there. Will you help me?”
Skye nodded, suddenly afraid. Of being alone. Of the past and the future. She clutched her mother. “Don’t ever leave me. I don’t know what I’d—”
“Shh.” Claire kissed her again. “Silly baby. I would never leave you. You’re my whole life. Didn’t you know that?”
Skye relaxed and smiled, remembering a game they had played when she was little—when she had still believed in monsters and bogeymen and things that breathed heavily in the dark.
Every night before bed, she had asked her mother the same thing: Would you fight the monsters for me? And every night her mother had searched out and destroyed the evil things for her. Only then had Skye been able to sleep. Only then had her nightmares retreated.
She tipped her face up to her mother’s and smiled, still remembering. “Would you fight the monsters for me?”
“The biggest and the badest. Always.” Claire smiled softly. “I love you, sweetheart.”
Skye hugged her tighter, nesting her head against her chest, though she knew she was too old to do so. Suddenly, miraculously, her head didn’t hurt. “I love you, too, Mom. More than anything.”
Chapter Seven
Claire closed the bedroom door behind her, then leaned against it, her knees weak. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth, shaken, relieved. Afraid.
How long could she continue to keep the past a secret from Skye? How long before her daughter simply demanded to know everything? Today, Skye’s wild imaginings had touched uncomfortably, even dangerously, close to the truth.
Claire shut her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. There would come a time when she would no longer be able to put off her daughter with transparent evasions and vague promises. Today had proved that time was almost here.
She shook her head, shuddering. Monsters. What Skye didn’t know, what she must never know, was that her mother had already faced and fought the monsters for her, that she had looked squarely into the eyes of evil and had seen the future. Skye’s future. Her own.
And she had run. As fast and as far as she had been able.
But not far enough to stop her daughter’s curiosity, her questions. Not far enough to be finally free of fear.
Claire pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She was tormented by nightmares of huge, dark and distorted birds stalking her daughter. Some nights she awakened bathed in a sweat, heart thundering, certain she would find Pierce standing above her. Or worse, that she would awaken to find that he and Adam had swept Skye away while she slept.
For Adam was very much alive.
And he was searching for them. Still, after seven years, he hadn’t given up.
He wouldn’t, Claire knew. Not ever.
Claire dropped her hands and pushed away from the door, heading back to the trailer’s kitchenette and the soup she had left unattended on the range. The smell of scorched food hung in the air. The tomato soup had boiled over, the red liquid a vivid splatter across the white enamel top.
Claire stared at the pool of red, her mind spinning back to the morning she had run away with Skye, seeing Adam’s blood spilled across the wooden floor, the splatters of red on her daughter’s white pinafore.
And hearing her daughter’s howls of fear.
When she had first realized that Grace had no memory not only of the awful events in the nursery but of anything of her life as a Monarch, she had thanked God. Her daughter had gone to sleep and awakened without a memory—though Madeline hadn’t understood that at first.
No, at first she had thought her daughter was in a kind of shock, but as several days passed without her mentioning her father, the events in the nursery or home, Madeline had begun to suspect the truth.
Too afraid of being found out to see a doctor about Skye’s condition, Claire had done some research at the library of one of the towns they passed through.
There, she had learned that sometimes, when something was too awful, too painful to deal with, the brain simply chose to forget it, to reject the unpleasantness and go on as if nothing had happened. Repressed memory, the book called it. Though Claire knew she wasn’t qualified to make a diagnosis, she believed that’s what had happened to Skye. She had simply, on a subconscious level, chosen to forget.
Though grateful, initially, Claire had been worried by her daughter’s repressed memory. And frightened. But Skye had seemed so happy; she had acted so…normal. As if she didn’t have a care in the world.
That had changed in the last few years. It had changed with the emergence of that damned “M.” Skye’s subconscious had let that image push through to her consciousness.
Remember, Skye, it seemed to say. Remember.
And with the “M” had come Skye’s questions. Her discontent with Claire’s evasive answers. Her headaches.
Claire brought a hand to her throat. Dear God, what was she to do? How could she continue to keep the truth from her daughter?
The soup bubbled over again, sizzling as it hit the electric coils. Claire jumped at the sound, startled out of her thoughts. She grabbed a pot holder and took the pan from the burner, then turned off the heat.
The soup had made a mess, charring the burner and the pan underneath the coils. Claire turned to the sink for a sponge, wet it, then began cleaning up the mess, her thoughts still on Skye and their future.
She couldn’t tell Skye the truth, no matter how much she hated lying. At least not yet. She couldn’t, for Skye’s own safety. When she was older, when she could really understand what kind of people the Monarchs were, what kind of person Griffen was, then she would tell her. Maybe.
