Ties That Bind Page 10

  “Would you like to stop at a restaurant, or should we grab a bite at home?” asked Danielle. Her silky voice slid over him caressingly in the way that it always did, but instead of bringing comfort, Philippe was reminded of the other woman in his life who had a similar voice: Rebekka.

  Daddy, I need you to pray for me.

  “Actually, I’d rather go home,” he managed to say to his wife.

  He hadn’t been able to help Rebekka, not in the slightest. He had held her, kissed her, and smoothed her hair, but it wasn’t the prayer she’d begged for.

  Philippe didn’t believe in organized religion. For a long time he hadn’t even believed in God at all. But through the years of association with members of his wife’s church, especially the Perrault family, he had come to admit that some sort of God-type being lived and that He did care about the people on earth. At least some of them. As much as he wanted to deny it, Philippe knew Danielle had been healed by a priesthood blessing after her severe accident in the train bombing, though he credited the miracle to the faith of those involved, not to their religion.

  Rebekka and Raoul had been baptized, and though Philippe remained unbelieving, he had attended the baptismal ceremonies. He didn’t accept the religious mumbo-jumbo as reality, so it hadn’t really mattered. The ordinances of the church were simply things Philippe did not believe in. He saw to it that his children had medical attention, a more than adequate education, and had even given Raoul money to enter a business partnership with the Perrault brothers. Those were things Philippe believed in. Solid things you could see and feel.

  But a few simple words from his cherished daughter had destroyed all that.

  Daddy, I need you to pray for me.

  Yes, it bothered him that he would not be giving his only daughter away at a spectacular wedding, but he had known that was a strong likelihood for many years. Ever since she began to call him Father, instead of Daddy, he knew she had moved, if not beyond his reach, then at least beyond his total control. She had joined her church with both heart and soul. He hadn’t let himself feel her loss then, but the anger in him had burned more fiercely. Oh, he certainly wouldn’t let it lash into his family as his father had permitted his anger to scar the young, helpless boy Philippe had once been, but the fury . . . and yes, the hurt, was there, eating steadily into his soul. One more thing to blame on Danielle’s church. While it may have given life back to his wife, it had stolen his daughter and his son.

  I need you to pray . . .

  She had only wanted a prayer—why couldn’t he give her that?

  I don’t know how.

  Philippe had never prayed, and he realized now that no one had ever taught him. His mother had died when he was young, and his father—God curse his soul—had been too stern, angry, or busy to make the effort, if he had believed in prayer at all.

  A light sweat broke over Philippe’s body. He was barely conscious of riding the elevator up the eight floors to their apartment. At the door, Danielle entered, but Philippe lingered in the hall. “I think I’m going for a walk, dear,” he said lightly, so as not to betray his inner turmoil.

  Danielle watched him for a moment, puzzled. “Would you like me to go with you?”

  “It’s okay. I know you’re tired. I won’t be long. Don’t worry.” He kissed her soft porcelain cheek, briefly amazed at the intense love in his heart. What had she seen in him all these years? She was so beautiful, patient, and intelligent, if a bit innocent. Oh, how he blessed that innocence! It was probably the only thing that had kept her with him, and he tried to make it up to her every day.

  “I love you,” she said quietly, as if knowing exactly what he needed.

  Why? he wanted to ask but was suddenly afraid of the answer. Why did she love him? Why did she put up with his inner seething anger? Why, when she was so strong in her faith, did she endure his unbelief?

  Philippe walked blindly down the street, tripping occasionally over a loose stone in the cobblestone sidewalk or the curb as he crossed the streets.

  But you do know how to pray. The thoughts were his own, and they told the truth. He had heard his family pray many times. Had God been listening, or did He only exert His power when it was a matter of life or death?

  Rebekka could have died today.

  Why couldn’t I pray for her?

  Philippe found himself in a remote section of his neighborhood. Night was falling quickly, yet the street lights hadn’t yet lit. He was completely alone, though he heard laughter coming through a nearby window.

  Abruptly, he was angry, furious, more than he had ever been in his entire life. He shook his fist at the darkening sky. Leave me alone! he screamed silently. I was happy before You came along.

  Had he been? No, before Danielle’s accident he had been teetering on the edge of leaving Danielle for another woman, and his anger had all but consumed him. Then the miracle of Danielle’s life had brought them back together, and their love had burned brightly ever since. He knew most of the credit went to his wife—and her church.

  Philippe stumbled into an alleyway, too caught up in his emotions to do more than register that he’d wandered a long distance from home into a neighbor that wasn’t nearly as safe. He fell to his knees, caring little for his expensive suit, and dropped his head into his hands.

  Daddy, I need you to pray . . .

  He tore at his hair. Why couldn’t I pray for her? He had wanted to, more desperately than she could ever know. Yes, she received another man’s blessing, but that other man was not her father. Philippe was, and he had failed her.

  Again.

  Tears fell from his eyes to the pavement.

  How long he knelt there he didn’t know, but eventually sounds called his attention. A cat mewing, a disembodied shout, faint voices from a television set, the scrape of something metal. Footsteps.

  Philippe raked his hand through his hair, bent almost upon himself in silent torment.

  Dear God, he began. Please bless my little girl.

  There was a rustling behind him, and then something heavy hit the back of his head. Philippe’s world went black.

  * * *

  Raoul had finally left his sister at the hospital and was driving home when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “I just got a call from the police,” said his mother, her voice frantic. “They found your dad in an alley. Someone beat him up. I—” Her voice cracked. “I have to go get him.”

  “Stay right there; I’ll come pick you up.” Raoul knew how much his mother hated to drive and going on the metro this late at night was out of the question. “I’m turning the car now. I’ll be there in minutes.”

  “Hurry,” she pleaded.

  Raoul stepped on the gas. Cold fingers gripped his heart. What would his mother do without his father? She loved him completely. With the exception of her involvement at church, her whole life revolved around him—especially now that her children were grown.

  He knew that if Desirée had been found dead in an alley, he wouldn’t want to go on without her; she was everything to him.

  Everything? a silent voice mocked.

  Raoul grimaced. Desirée wasn’t a member, that was true, and though every day he earnestly prayed for a change of heart, he still loved her. Just the mere thought of her beautiful face and her touch made him weak in the knees. When he was with her, he was happy. She kept him laughing and his heart racing. He suspected that she didn’t love him as much as he loved her, but she was young—twenty-two to his twenty-seven. She would grow to love him more once she settled down a bit.

  His grimace disappeared as he recalled the day they had met—at the grocery store of all places. She had been buying a basket of fruit and had looked so inviting in her summer dress that he had been caught staring. Before he knew what had happened, they were talking and she was giving him her number. He loved how easily she kept the conversation going. He felt he had known her forever.

  He hadn’t known then that she was as friendly with everyon
e she met, not just with him. Sometimes it bothered him the way she talked so familiarly with people—especially other men. When he mentioned it to her, she just laughed and told him that he was cute when he was jealous.

  I’m not jealous, he told himself. After all, she married me.

  Why? asked that nasty voice. Was it for money?

  He pushed the disturbing thought aside. When he looked into her eyes, he knew she loved him. He was determined to make their relationship work—even if it required a lot of patience.

  Drawing out his phone again, he dialed his home number. There was no answer. He wondered if Desirée was still visiting friends. She had declined to go with him to the hospital, claiming that Rebekka would already have too many visitors. Her statement turned out to be true, but Raoul had been a trifle annoyed all the same. Family should be there for one another.

  He dialed the number again, but there was still no answer. Where is she? He scowled. The first thing he was going to do the next day was get her a cell phone.

  When he arrived at his parents’ apartment building, his mother was out front waiting for him. She jumped into the car. Her eyes were red from crying and the tissue in her hand was wet. Raoul handed her another from the dash compartment.

  “Which hospital?” he asked.

  Danielle stared at him blankly for a moment, as though trying to process the question. Her face was eerily illuminated by the street lamp outside. “He’s not at the hospital,” she said finally. “We have to go to the police station.”

  Raoul sagged with relief. “Then he can’t be hurt badly, or they would have taken him to the hospital.”

  A light appeared in Danielle’s gray eyes. “I just thought that maybe he was too bad to move . . . or something.”

  “It’ll be all right.” He patted his mother’s leg, more confident now.

  They reached the police station fifteen minutes later and were ushered into a backroom where Philippe lay on a padded table, surrounded by a small group of uniformed officers.

  “Are you sure you weren’t drinking, Morrie?” a female officer was saying.

  “I tell you, I saw what I saw,” insisted a short, square-faced policeman. “There were two thugs, and one of ’em had a knife in his hand. I could see that he was going to stab this here fellow—uh, Monsieur Massoni, I mean—but then the other perp said something and he up and dropped his knife and ran.”

  “Not before he got my money,” Philippe said dryly.

  “He musta heard you coming,” one of the other officers said to the one called Morrie.

  “You’re sure he doesn’t have a stab wound in his back?” asked the woman.

  “I’m fine,” Philippe insisted, his voice irritated. He struggled to a sitting position. “Except for this blasted headache.”

  “Whoever it was hit ’im pretty hard on the back of the head. Found a piece of wood nearby that they must have used. Had blood on it. I chased ’em but they were too fast.”

  Danielle didn’t wait to hear more. “Philippe!” As she rushed to her husband’s side the crowd of officers parted to allow them through.

  Raoul hung back. He hadn’t seen his father since his marriage to Desirée and wasn’t sure how he would be received.

  “Thank the Lord you’re all right!” Danielle rubbed her hand lightly over his back. “I’ve been so worried.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Philippe buried his face in his wife’s neck, but not before Raoul glimpsed an unmistakable vulnerability.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Danielle murmured. “Are you all right? Shouldn’t we go to the hospital?”

  Philippe shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Just a little headache.”

  “A little?” mocked one of the officers. The others laughed.

  Philippe withdrew from Danielle and began to rise slowly. His movements froze as his eyes fell on Raoul. An internal battle seemed to ensue, but Raoul couldn’t read the emotions on his father’s face. Anger, resentment, hatred? All three, or none? Raoul simply didn’t know, and he felt a deep sadness. A man should know his father, he thought. What was left between them?

  Finally, Philippe nodded in his direction. “Raoul,” he said, as though Raoul hadn’t eloped with a woman of whom he didn’t approve. As though their religious beliefs hadn’t created a barrier over the years that neither had been able to bridge.

  “Is he free to go?” Raoul asked, looking away from his father.

  “Yes, we already have his signed statement,” said one of the officers.

  Danielle possessively held onto her husband’s arm as they made their way to Raoul’s car. After a brief recap of the events, during which Raoul learned nothing more than what the officers had said, Philippe fell into silence. With his parents riding in the back seat together, Raoul felt more like a chauffeur than a son.

  He pulled up to their apartment building after ten o’clock, and jumped out to help his father from the car. Shutting the door behind them, he watched his parents walk toward their building. Raoul didn’t go with them. Desirée would be home now, and he should get back to her. Yet he knew the thought was only an excuse. In reality, he was uncomfortable with his father and dreaded a confrontation.

  Philippe paused, then separated from Danielle, taking a few steps in Raoul’s direction. “Thank you for coming, son,” he said. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  Raoul felt a rush of different emotions. He tried to speak but couldn’t with the sudden lump in his throat. Besides, what could he say? He nodded.

  To his utter surprise Philippe hugged him, and Raoul was unable to stop the tears. “Father . . .” he began but again couldn’t speak. He still didn’t know what to say. His father felt infinitely frailer in his arms than Raoul remembered as a young boy; he probably outweighed Philippe now by ten kilos.

  “I love you, son. I always have. Whatever words we had are in the past. You and your wife are welcome in my home anytime.”

  Raoul searched his father’s face. He saw no burning anger there, only regret. “I love you too, Dad.”

  He watched his parents enter their apartment building, marveling at his father and the scene that had taken place between them. What would Rebekka say if she knew? But that would have to wait until Rebekka was feeling better. Besides, Raoul was reluctant to explain the event to her when he didn’t understand it himself. Something had happened to effect a change in his father’s attitude, and he had no clue as to what. Surely a mugging couldn’t bring such a shift, so what had? Certainly nothing spiritual; his father had always rejected such things.

  Yet images of happier times flashed before his memory: of the two of them staying up late with a school math assignment; of Philippe sitting by his bed when he was ill; of the day Philippe had given him the money he needed to start the business with Marc and André. And towering over all was the continual care and respect Philippe offered to his wife. There was no mistaking the genuine love and deep attachment between them. Maybe I’ve been wrong about him, Raoul thought. Maybe I’ve been so caught up in what was wrong with him that I never saw the good.

  When it came right down to it, his father had always been there for him when it mattered. Except at church. Did that one lack overshadow all the rest? Had Raoul’s resentment over that one thing prevented him from having the relationship he desired with his father? He had always blamed Philippe, but now Raoul was not so sure the blame rested entirely on his father’s shoulders.

  At least Desirée would be happy to learn that his father had retracted his verbal opposition to their marriage. Feeling much lighter, Raoul hurried back to his car. Inside, he dialed his apartment number to tell Desirée he would be home soon.

  No one answered.

  By the time he arrived home, he was worried, but Desirée arrived shortly after he did. He met her at the door. “Hi, sweetie,” she said, coming to him and wrapping her arms around him. She smelled of smoke mixed with perfume.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, kissing her lightly on the
mouth. She tasted strongly of mint.

  “With Leesa,” she said. “And some others.”

  He wanted to ask her if the “others” were male or female, but he stopped himself. Just because Desirée was beautiful and friendly didn’t mean he had to be suspicious.

  “My dad was hurt,” he said. He led her to the sitting room as he briefly outlined the attack.

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Desirée knelt on the couch, turning his body so she could massage his shoulders.

  He began to relax under her ministrations. “I don’t know. It might be a good thing. He—” Raoul turned around so that he could face her “—he actually told me that he withdraws his objections to our marriage.”

  Desirée’s dark eyes flashed. “That’s wonderful! I know that means a lot to you.”

  “To both of us,” he corrected. She laughed as he gathered her into his arms.

  Chapter Eleven

  By Monday night Rebekka was up walking the halls, on Wednesday she was walking around the hospital grounds, and on Thursday she was released. She didn’t go home, however, unless it was to sleep. Instead, she spent every minute she could with Marc. As he was fighting boredom, he was grateful for her company.

  Unfortunately, his progress wasn’t as rapid. His creatinine levels, though dropping from eight before the surgery to hover around two point five, still worried the doctor. “We’d hoped you’d be under two,” explained Dr. Albert Juppe, the transplant specialist. The doctor was slightly shorter than Marc and stocky, with plump fingers and silver hair that had once been black. Marc felt a déjà-vu every time he saw the man who had also performed his first transplant. “We have to be very careful that your body doesn’t reject the kidney now.”

  Rejection? While he knew it was quite possible, Marc hadn’t allowed himself to entertain the idea. How could he stand it if he rejected Rebekka’s kidney after all the suffering she’d endured?

  Seeing his worry, Dr. Juppe added, “It might just be that the kidney was traumatized and needs a week or two to recover from the surgery.” He smiled, his intense black eyes showing an apparent concern. “Don’t worry . . . yet.”