Echoes in the Dark. Gayle Wilson

died in that car. Why you’ve let me think all these years that if I had only reached her sooner, if I had been a little quicker— You’ve let me live with that. Now I find she didn’t die there. She died at the convent. She died, giving birth to my son, alone. She bled to death, alone.”

      His cold voice paused to bank the emotions that were clearly threatening the icy control. “Why was she carried to the convent? My God, one of the finest medical facilities in the region was only a few miles away. I was carried there and lived, despite...” He stopped because they both knew what his condition had been.

      “I want an explanation for this entire pack of lies you’ve fed me all this time, and damn you, Andre, it had better be a good one. I swear, I could kill you for letting me believe I let them die.”

      “I thought that would be easier than the truth,” his brother’s voice spoke quietly. Julien could hear the bitter resignation behind the calm answer. “I knew how much it would hurt you to know the truth.”

      “Hurt more than the belief that I let my wife and son burn to death? What truth could have twisted my guts all these years more than that?”

      “No one blamed you for her death. No one could believe you’d even reached the car in your condition. The idea that you’d failed her was only in your head. She was the one driving, too fast, as she always did. Everyone at the reception had seen the beginnings of that tantrum, and, of course, she’d been drinking.”

      “She didn’t drink. She was pregnant.”

      “Maybe that’s what she told you, but she had. Too many people saw her. Several came forward at the inquiry. She was drunk and angry and she killed her child and almost killed you. The only fault is hers. I never knew you blamed yourself. If I had known, I would have told you a long time ago, but I thought it would be kinder to have you believe—”

      “Kinder to believe that she burned to death? My God, Andre, what could have been worse than that?”

      “That she killed her son, blinded you and then walked away. She chose to leave. At least—”

      “Are you telling me she wasn’t injured?” he interrupted. “Are you trying to tell me she just walked away from the wreck?”

      “She tried to get help,” his brother’s voice said, attempting, he thought, to be fair. “She tried to flag down a car, but they thought she was drunk. Someone found her wandering down the road. She had a head injury. She was disoriented. She thought you were dead. They brought her to the hospital, but when she found out you were alive and so badly hurt, and that she’d left you there... She was so frantic that they thought, for the baby’s sake, she should be taken somewhere where she could be cared for. I don’t know who thought of the convent, but it seemed the best solution. She didn’t want to leave you, and she was in no condition to wait through the hours of surgery. She needed to be under observation, but when they tried to make her leave you, she got hysterical. Finally they gave her a shot, a sedative, and she was taken to the convent. Perhaps that was a mistake—”

      Andre paused, took a deep breath and then admitted, “As it turned out, it was, of course, a terrible mistake, but everything was so confused, and she’d shown no signs of going into labor. It was far too early. Moving her seemed to make sense at the time.”

      Andre stopped. Julien could hear the sigh, but he had to know it all.

      “Go on,” he said bitterly into the silence. “Tell me about my son’s death. Explain that lie.”

      “The baby was born prematurely. There at the convent. By the time the doctor arrived... He said it wouldn’t have mattered. Even if they had been in hospital, they couldn’t have saved the baby. It was too early. The baby was stillborn. I swear to you that’s the truth.”

      “And then? Did my wife bleed to death there where you’d sent her? Is that what you’ve been afraid to tell me all these years. That she died because she wasn’t where she could get medical attention? Was that your decision, Andre?”

      There was no answer for a long time and he waited, impassive now. Was it less painful to believe that the fault had not been his? Less painful to picture her gradually sinking deeper into a bloodless lethargy from which not even the doctor, when he arrived, could save her? Better than the images of the fire and the smell of the gasoline?

      Even now he couldn’t stand the smell. It was like the smell of a hospital. He couldn’t enter one. It brought it all back again: the agony of the burn tank, the struggle to walk again, to cope with the blackness of his world that had threatened so often to drown him in its dark depression.

      “She didn’t die.”

      The words interrupted his return to the hell of those memories, and he felt his heart take a great leap as he realized what Andre had just said. He forced himself into stillness and waited, and finally his brother continued.

      “She recovered. I don’t know where the old woman got the idea that she was dying. She recovered more rapidly than anyone believed possible, but she was very young and strong. She came to the hospital to see you as soon as she was able. I’ll give her that. She had good intentions, but...I suppose the shock was too great. You were so terribly hurt, and there was no response for so long. When the doctors told us the full extent of the injuries, she blamed herself, of course. She damn well should have,” Andre said harshly. “That stupid bitch and her everlasting tantrums. She put you there, and as soon as the doctors told us the truth about your condition...that you were blind and probably would never walk again. That you—”

      “I know what the doctors said,” Julien interrupted. He allowed himself to ask only when the angry voice had been silent a long time, “And when she knew?”

      “She left. She left the note on your bed, in an envelope with my name on it. She couldn’t live with what she’d done. She couldn’t live with you as you were going to be. As soon as you came out of the coma, she realized that you were going to live, to know what she’d done. I could have killed her, Julien. I swear if I’d found her, I would have. The damned coward did what she did and then left you to—”

      “So you let me believe she died?” the passionless voice interrupted again.

      “You woke up convinced she was dead. All your questions were about her death, about whether she’d suffered. The doctors were so concerned about you, not just the physical injuries, but— I didn’t know what to do, what would be kinder to do, so I just said nothing. I’m guilty of that, and I admit it. I chose to let you believe that she died, rather than to know that she blinded you, killed your son and then walked away. All those months I watched you struggle through the pain, I hated her. I never tried to find her because I knew I’d kill her. I could kill her now.”

      He could hear the conviction in the quiet voice.

      “Do you swear to me that this is, at last, the truth? Do you swear it, Andre?”

      “It’s the truth. Why would I lie to you after all this time? Perhaps I made the wrong decisions, but at least I tried. At least, I didn’t run away.” Seeing the pain in his brother’s dark face, Andre whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

      Julien took a deep breath, forcing himself to calmness. “I think it’s best that we don’t talk about this again. It’s very painful for me, Andre. I hope that what’s been revealed today won’t be mentioned again. Will you agree to that?”

      “Of course. I’ll do whatever you want. I never intended to hurt you more. You were already—”

      “I know. Let it go. There’s nothing you can do after all these years. Let me learn to deal with this. It’s simply a different ending to an old story. Now if you’ll forgive me...” The words were polite dismissal, and in spite of so many things he wanted to say, Andre was forced to recognize that what had been said was enough for the moment, all that the man who sat so calmly in his prison of darkness could deal with, and so he left.

      When the door closed, Julien rose and went to stand by the window.