So many questions I had to ask--but there was Carrie, clinging to me, staring up at me. I didn't want her to know Cory had died from any but natural reasons. It was then Chris put the bag with the evidence in my hands. "It's up to you to decide. You and your intuition were right all along--if I'd have listened, Cory would be alive today."
There is no hate such as that born out of love betrayed--and my brain screamed out for revenge. Yes, I wanted to see Momma and the grandmother locked up in jail, put behind bars, convicted of premeditated murder--four counts, if intentions were counted, too. They'd be only gray mice in cages, shut up like us, only they'd have the benefit of being in the company of drug addicts, prostitutes, and other killers like themselves. Their clothes would be of gray prison cotton. No trips twice a week to the beauty salon for Momma, no makeup, no professional manicures--and a shower once a week. She'd even lose the privacy of her most personal body places. Oh, she'd suffer without furs to wear, and jewelry, and warm cruises in southern waters when the winter rolled around. There wouldn't be a handsome, adoring young husband to romp with in a grand swan bed.
I stared up at the sky where God was supposed to be--could I let Him in His own ways, balance the scales and take the burden of justice from me?
I thought it cruel, unfair, that Chris should put all the burden of decision on my shoulders. Why?
Was it because he would forgive her for anything--even the death of Cory, and her efforts to kill all of us? Would he reason that such parents as hers could pressure her into doing anything--even murder? Was there enough money in the whole world to make me kill my four children?
Pictures flashed in my mind, taking me back to the days before my father died. I saw us all in the back garden, laughing and happy. I saw us at the beach, sailing, swimming, or in the mountains skiing. And I saw Momma in the kitchen doing her best to cook meals to please us all.
Yeah, surely her parents would know all the ways to kill her love for us--they'd know. Or was Chris thinking, as I was, that if we went to the police and told our story, our faces would be splashed on the front pages of every newspaper in the country? Would the glare of publicity make up for what we'd lose? Our privacy--our need to stay together? Could we lose each other just to get even?
I glanced up at the sky again.
God, He didn't write the scripts for the puny little players down here. We wrote them ourselves--with each day we lived, each word we spoke, each thought we etched on our brains. And Momma had written her script, too. And a sorry one it was.
Once she'd had four children she considered perfect in every way. Now she had none. Once she had four children who loved her, and considered her perfect in every way--now she had none who saw her as perfect. Nor would she ever want to have others. Love for what money could buy would keep her forever faithful to that cruel codicil in her father's will.
Momma would grow old; her husband was years younger. She'd have time to feel lonely and wish she'd done it all differently. If her arms never ached to hold me again, they'd ache for Chris, and maybe Carrie . . . and, most certainly, she'd want those babies that would be ours one day.
From this city we'd flee southward on a bus to make of ourselves somebodies. When we saw Momma again--and to be certain fate would arrange it that way--we'd look her straight in the eyes, and turn our backs.
Into the nearest green trashcan I dropped the bag, saying good-bye to Mickey, and asking him to please forgive us for what we did.
"C'mon, Cathy," called Chris, stretching forth his hand. "What's done is done. Say good-bye to the past, and hello to the future. And we're wasting time, when already we've wasted enough. We've got everything ahead, waiting for us."
Just the right words to make me feel real, alive, free! Free enough to forget thoughts of revenge. I laughed and spun about to run back to where I could put my hand in his, stretched ready and waiting. With his free arm, Chris swooped down to pick up Carrie, and he hugged her close and kissed her wan cheek. "Did you hear all of that, Carrie? We are on our way to where the flowers bloom all through the winter--in fact, flowers bloom all year long down there. Does that make you want to smile?"
A tiny smile came and went on pale lips that seemed to have forgotten how to smile. But that was enough--for now.
Epilogue
. It is with relief that I end the telling of our foundation years, on which we were to base the rest of our lives.
After we escaped Foxworth Hall, we made our way, and managed, somehow, to always keep striving toward our goals.
Our lives were always to be tempestuous, but it taught both Chris and me that we were survivors. For Carrie, it was far different. She had to be persuaded to want a life without Cory, even when she was surrounded by roses.
But how we managed to survive--that's another story.
V.