The Weight of Silence. Heather GudenkaufЧитать онлайн книгу.
mother, who was shoving Griff away from her to get to Calli. Griff held tightly to her mother’s arm and she snapped back like a rubber band. For an instant, before Toni tumbled backward down the steps, Griff nearly steadied her. Calli and Griff both watched in horror as Antonia’s back slammed into the steps and she fell to the ground below.
“Mommy!” Calli yelped as Griff skidded down the steps to Antonia. He knelt before her where she was crumpled. She was conscious, her face twisted in pain, her arms cradled around her belly, moaning silently.
“Can you sit up? Shut up, Calli!” he barked. Calli continued to sob as Griff settled Antonia into a sitting position.
“The baby, the baby,” she cried.
“It will be all right, it will be all right,” Griff said pleadingly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Calli, shut the hell up. Can you walk? Here, let’s get you to the couch.” Griff gently raised Antonia to her feet and led her to the sofa, where he laid her down and placed an afghan over her. “Just rest, just rest. It will be okay.”
Calli continued to scream in the background, her weeping getting closer as she made her way down the stairs and moved to her mother’s side. Antonia, eyes half-closed, put one arm toward Calli.
“Get away!” Griff hollered. “Jesus, stay out of the way, and shut up!” Griff’s hands were shaking as he snatched Calli up and took her into the kitchen. “Sit here and shut up!” Griff paced around the kitchen, pulled at his hair, and wiped his mouth with one trembling hand.
Griff bent down to Calli, her tearful screams dropping to grief-stricken hiccups, and whispered into her ear for one full minute. During those interminable sixty seconds Calli’s eyes blinked rapidly at Griff’s words. His breath hissed across the delicate crevices of her ear and mingled with her mother’s soft cries. Then he stood and rushed out the back door with a gust of wintry, bitter wind, taking away more than he arrived with.
That evening, after Ben came home, Calli and Ben sat vigil around their mother as she lay on the couch. Her desperate, mournful moans filled the room until Ben finally called Officer Louis and the ambulance arrived, just in time to deliver a perfect, silent, birdlike baby girl, whose skin was the same bluish color as her mother’s lips. The paramedics swiftly whisked the breathless infant away, but not before Calli gently patted her strawberry-colored hair.
Years later, Calli sat among the fallen tree limbs, alert and tense, remembering her father’s whispers that still hummed in her ear. She heard a rustle from somewhere behind her. It couldn’t be her father. Ranger Phelps? Hope rose in her chest. Did she dare to come out from her hiding place? She weighed her options. If she emerged, Ranger Phelps would surely help her get home, but what if they came across her father? He would hand her over to her father and she wouldn’t be able to tell the ranger what had happened. No. She needed to stay put. She knew her way home, she just needed to be patient and wait Griff out. He would give up soon, he’d want to get to fishing with Roger, he’d want a drink. The olive-green pants of Ranger Phelps’s uniform flashed past her and Calli resisted the urge to leap from the twiggy den she had created and grab hold of the man. Just as quickly as he’d appeared, he was gone, fading into the lacy ferns, his footfalls silent upon the spongy earth. Calli sat back, tucked her knees beneath her chin and covered her head with her arms. If Calli couldn’t see her father, she figured, he certainly wouldn’t be able to see her.
MARTIN
I stop by my home to find Fielda standing at the front door, her kinky black hair pulled back from her face, her glasses sitting crookedly on her nose. She looks at me expectantly, I shake my head no and her face falls.
“What do we do?” she asks pitifully.
“The deputy sheriff says to call anyone we can think of to keep an eye out for them. He says to find a picture of her to put on fliers. I am going to take the photos of the girls to the police station. They’re going to make the fliers for us, and then I’m going to find some people to help me pass them out.”
Fielda reaches for me and circles her arms around me. “What are we going to do?” she cries softly.
“We are going to find her, Fielda. We are going to find Petra and bring her home. I promise.” We stand there for a moment, letting the weight of my promise soak into both of our skins until finally Fielda steps away from me.
“You go get those fliers,” she tells me firmly. “I am going to call people. I’ll start with the A’s and work my way through the alphabet.” She kisses me goodbye and I squeeze her hand before I shut the door.
As I drive down the streets of my town, my eyes scan every inch of sidewalk, searching for Petra. I try to see in windows and crane my neck to look into backyards and several times I nearly veer off the road. When I pull in front of the police station my legs are shaking, and it’s with weak knees that I trudge through the door. I introduce myself to a man at a desk. When his eyes meet mine I search them to see if I can discern what he thinks of me. Does he suspect me? Does he feel sorry for me? I cannot tell.
“I’ll get those fliers for you right away, Mr. Gregory,” he says and leaves me.
Now in the sanctuary of my office at St. Gilianus, each excruciating moment of the day stabs at my mind. I cannot concentrate. Sitting in my office on campus with a pile of papers, my beautiful daughter’s face gazing out at me from them, I can almost feel Petra’s presence in the room. Petra loves to sit beneath my large walnut desk. There she plays with her dolls, which she carries in a large canvas bag with her name painted on the front of it. As I do paperwork, I can hear the intricate conversations that her dolls hold with one another, and I smile at the thought. Petra enjoys learning all about the mysterious history of the college. She walks with me through the buildings, sunlight shining through the jewel-colored stained-glass windows depicting the saints and martyrs of the Catholic Church. She often makes me pause in front of the window showing St. Gilianus, the namesake of the college. In brilliant hues of saffron, lapis, copper and jade, the artist tells the story of Gilianus’s life, an old man dressed in brown robes, holding a scroll, flanked by a large bear and a flock of blackbirds. I repeatedly tell her about St. Gilianus, also known as St. Gall or St. Callo, a man born in Ireland sometime in the sixth century. Legend had it that Gilianus, a hermit, ordered a bear in the woods where he lived to bring his reclusive clan wood for their fire, and the bear obeyed. I describe to her the tale of how King Sigebert of Austrasia, now northeastern France and western Germany, implored Gilianus to free his promised wife of demons. Gilianus obliged, and at his command freed the tortured woman of demons who left her in the form of a flock of blackbirds. Petra always shivers with delight at this story and rubs the musical note charm on her necklace nervously.
My colleagues make special stops to my office when they know Petra is visiting. They ask her about school and friends, and she draws pictures for them to hang in their offices. My students are equally enchanted with Petra; she remembers the names of everyone who happens to meet with me while she is present. One distressed junior made an impromptu visit to my office this past winter while Petra played happily under my desk. The young man, normally confident and charming, was near tears, worried about graduating on time. He could not concentrate on his studies, and needed to get another part-time job to help pay his tuition and rent.
“Lucky,” I said to the student, “you have too much on your plate right now. It is natural for you to feel stress.” I hastened to lure Petra from under the desk and introduce her to the young man before he became too emotional in front of her. “This is my daughter, Petra. She often comes to my office on weekends to help me. Petra, this is Lucky Thompson, one of my students.”
Petra looked critically at Lucky, taking in his shaggy hair, baggy jeans and sweatshirt. “Is Lucky your real name?” she asked boldly.
“No, my real name’s Lynton, but everyone just calls me Lucky,” he explained.
“Good move,” Petra said, nodding her head. “So are you lucky?”
“Most of the time, I guess.”
“Do