to go inside, too, back to the recalcitrant budget.
Faye followed. Faye, who had never been pati ent, irritably biding her time.
Chapter 4
Faye had come back for Rebecca.
After all this time, after Marshall had thought he could finally stop worrying that Faye would steal Becky, she was back, and Becky was in fully as much jeopardy as when she'd been a child. Old as he was, his mind not right, he was still her father and it was still up to him to save her.
He meant to get up. He lost his balance and collapsed back into the chair. Panting, he sat there crooked for a while, one hand trapped awkwardly under him, and tried to decide what course of action would be advisable.
It had actually happened only once before, when Rebecca was three years old. Marshall remembered it clearly, fiercely, and recurrently; he also remembered, though with less consistency, that his memory was often untrustworthy, but he knew this was not one of those times. He couldn't get himself straightened in the chair, and his hand twisted under his hip was starting to ache, but he sat there the way he was and remembered again:
Walking in the woods with Becky. Wands of sunlight between trees; the trunks of trees long thin brown wands. Marshall kept a close eye on his little girl. She could trip and fall. She could eat something poisonous. She could wander off and get lost.For all his surreptitious searching of her face and manner - and, he knew, Billie's searching, Billie's stalwart resolve not to search - the child bore little specific resemblance to anybody. Sometimes she seemed light on her feet, sprite-like, like Faye, and when she was playful in a particular thoughtless way his heart would seize, but then there'd come a sudden glow of what he was sure was precocious awareness of others, and he'd think with relief how like Billie she was. If his daughter took after him, he wouldn't know it; he never encountered his recorded voice or photographed image without a rude little shock, and certainly he didn't have much feel for what sort of man he was. Indeed his time with Faye had convincingly demonstrated that he could be whatever he was expected to be, which was why it was so crucial for him to stay with someone like Billie, who expected him to be strong, steady, a reliable husband, a good father.
Rebecca ran on ahead. He called to her; she answered. A squirrel chittered from a nearby branch, but he couldn't locate it to show her. She was at his side. 'There's a lady over there.'
'A lady? Where?'
'Over there.' She pointed. 'In a car. She said she'd give me a ride. Can I?'
'No! Becky!' Marshall reached for her and slid out of the chair. His left wrist, numb from being bent under him, didn't support his weight, and he collapsed face down onto the cold tile.
After a few minutes of considering the fact that he was on the floor in his room in a nursing home, where theoretically there were nurses to help him if he could let them know he needed help, Marshall turned his gaze and saw the call light button on its thick white cord clipped to the side of the bed. Proudly, he knew immediately what it was and how to use it. It was, though, out of reach from this position; to prove it to himself, he stretched out his arm. The button was too high and about a foot beyond the tips of his fingers. He would have to move.
He maneuvered until both palms were flat on the floor under his shoulders, and then pushed up. This lifted the top part of his torso a few inches off the floor, but his muscles trembled and gave out and he collapsed again. Perhaps he fell asleep. Some time later he tried again, and this time managed to get up onto his hands and knees and move cumbersomely forward. He could reach the call button now. He didn't quite remember why he needed to call someone, but the conviction that doing so was important had stayed with him, and he exerted all the force he could muster to depress the red
Faye followed. Faye, who had never been pati ent, irritably biding her time.
Chapter 4
Faye had come back for Rebecca.
After all this time, after Marshall had thought he could finally stop worrying that Faye would steal Becky, she was back, and Becky was in fully as much jeopardy as when she'd been a child. Old as he was, his mind not right, he was still her father and it was still up to him to save her.
He meant to get up. He lost his balance and collapsed back into the chair. Panting, he sat there crooked for a while, one hand trapped awkwardly under him, and tried to decide what course of action would be advisable.
It had actually happened only once before, when Rebecca was three years old. Marshall remembered it clearly, fiercely, and recurrently; he also remembered, though with less consistency, that his memory was often untrustworthy, but he knew this was not one of those times. He couldn't get himself straightened in the chair, and his hand twisted under his hip was starting to ache, but he sat there the way he was and remembered again:
Walking in the woods with Becky. Wands of sunlight between trees; the trunks of trees long thin brown wands. Marshall kept a close eye on his little girl. She could trip and fall. She could eat something poisonous. She could wander off and get lost.For all his surreptitious searching of her face and manner - and, he knew, Billie's searching, Billie's stalwart resolve not to search - the child bore little specific resemblance to anybody. Sometimes she seemed light on her feet, sprite-like, like Faye, and when she was playful in a particular thoughtless way his heart would seize, but then there'd come a sudden glow of what he was sure was precocious awareness of others, and he'd think with relief how like Billie she was. If his daughter took after him, he wouldn't know it; he never encountered his recorded voice or photographed image without a rude little shock, and certainly he didn't have much feel for what sort of man he was. Indeed his time with Faye had convincingly demonstrated that he could be whatever he was expected to be, which was why it was so crucial for him to stay with someone like Billie, who expected him to be strong, steady, a reliable husband, a good father.
Rebecca ran on ahead. He called to her; she answered. A squirrel chittered from a nearby branch, but he couldn't locate it to show her. She was at his side. 'There's a lady over there.'
'A lady? Where?'
'Over there.' She pointed. 'In a car. She said she'd give me a ride. Can I?'
'No! Becky!' Marshall reached for her and slid out of the chair. His left wrist, numb from being bent under him, didn't support his weight, and he collapsed face down onto the cold tile.
After a few minutes of considering the fact that he was on the floor in his room in a nursing home, where theoretically there were nurses to help him if he could let them know he needed help, Marshall turned his gaze and saw the call light button on its thick white cord clipped to the side of the bed. Proudly, he knew immediately what it was and how to use it. It was, though, out of reach from this position; to prove it to himself, he stretched out his arm. The button was too high and about a foot beyond the tips of his fingers. He would have to move.
He maneuvered until both palms were flat on the floor under his shoulders, and then pushed up. This lifted the top part of his torso a few inches off the floor, but his muscles trembled and gave out and he collapsed again. Perhaps he fell asleep. Some time later he tried again, and this time managed to get up onto his hands and knees and move cumbersomely forward. He could reach the call button now. He didn't quite remember why he needed to call someone, but the conviction that doing so was important had stayed with him, and he exerted all the force he could muster to depress the red
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