The only person other than the sheriff that she’d called had been her best friend, Becca Parsons, who’d arranged for the doctor to meet them at the hospital. In the meantime, they’d given Ellen some over-the-counter acetaminophen with an added sleep aid. Ellen was obviously floating in and out, but she was listening to her mother. Martha could tell by the movement in her daughter’s ribs against her own, the tightening of Ellen’s hand squeezing hers. Ellen didn’t want to see a doctor. Martha didn’t blame her.
“You’ve met Becca Parsons and her little daughter, Bethany,” Martha said to David, rubbing her hand across Ellen’s back. The girl had refused to let her mother go home and get fresh clothes for her. Or to borrow a T-shirt and shorts from Pastor Marks. She’d refused to let her clothes be taken from her body.
She’d refused to let her mother go, period, which was why Martha—in spite of seat belt laws—had a twenty-year-old child in her lap. Let some cop try to stop them and give her a hard time about it.
“Of course I know them,” David was saying. “As the new mayor, she gave me my official welcome to town.” He barely took his eyes from the road, but Martha felt his glance in their direction. “Will and I have played golf a time or two.”
Martha wondered why Becca hadn’t mentioned that.
“Dr. Anderson’s the one who helped them have Bethany,” Martha said now, hoping to reassure her daughter, somehow, that miracles did happen. That everything was going to be okay.
Reassure her child of something she knew in her heart was not the truth.
“After twenty years of trying, the impossible became possible, thanks to Dr. Anderson’s care and compassion.” If nothing else, she was filling the car with something besides the agony in her arms. In her daughter’s heart.
The hope that sometimes life did work out for the best. The belief that good people did win. That justice would be done.
Ellen’s fingers relaxed their grip on Martha’s blouse, just for a second. The tightness in Martha’s heart eased for that second, too.
“And now they have Kim, too.” David’s words were matter-of-fact.
The little Korean boy Becca and Will had adopted the previous summer. “Yeah.”
“Each is an example of faith,” he said softly.
Ellen whimpered and Martha moved her hand from her daughter’s back to the hair that was still caked to her head. Martha swallowed back nausea. God, she needed some time alone with her baby.
To bathe her. To help Ellen feel clean again.
“Faith?” Because of the child in her arms she had to restrain the intensity of the anger his words instilled. But she did so with great difficulty. Who did he think he was? Preaching, even now! She wanted to scream at him to drop it. “You got that one wrong, Preacher,” she said, rocking Ellen gently as the girl moaned again. “Becca had long ago lost faith and given up any hope of having a baby. Bethany’s arrival was sheer luck. Or the twisted humor of fate.”
The same fate that was playing with them now? As they drove Martha’s sweet daughter to see how much damage had actually been done—and to prevent any consequences from the hell she’d suffered while Martha was at home, oblivious, nagging Tim to do his math homework.
“Will never lost faith. Or gave up hope.”
The words weren’t loud, but they were firm.
Martha couldn’t reply. She didn’t feel like arguing. Let the man have his fantasies about the power of faith and hope.
She couldn’t afford them.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT by the time they got home. After the doctor had taken care of her, Ellen had met with a police artist who’d come to the hospital and she’d given a description of her attacker. Then she’d swallowed something to help her sleep—and she’d been dead to the world in the back seat of the Explorer before they left the lights of Phoenix behind. A counseling appointment had been arranged for the following afternoon. Martha anxiously stood by as David pulled her sleeping daughter out of the car and carried her into the house.
“What’s going on?” Shelley was there, wide-eyed and looking younger than she had in years, as they came into the foyer.
With a quick hug for her teenager who’d been so full of anger lately, Martha said, “In a minute,” and led David through the sprawling single-story house to Ellen’s bedroom.
Shelley was right behind them, and without saying a word, helped her mother undress her sister and get her into bed, while David spoke quietly to the other two kids out in the hall. Rebecca had appeared shortly after they’d come in. Tim, if he’d been asleep, had obviously heard them and woken up.
“Where’d these clothes come from?” Shelley whispered, uncharacteristically folding the garments and laying them carefully on the dresser.
“The hospital.”
God, Martha wondered, how was she g
oing to do this? How could she tell her kids what had happened to their older sister? How could she help any of them live with the fear that had been permanently introduced to their home that night?