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Rebecca had taken her eyes away from her father only for an instant. When she turned back to him now, there seemed to be a pastel aura behind him, lavender and pink and buttercup yellow. Even with the shadows that shot through it, the lowering slant as if of light from a deep hole, it would not have been sinister except that it was clearly in pursuit of her father, who was clearly fleeing.
Rebecca was well aware of the visual distortions that the shiny waxed white floors, white walls, and fluorescent lights could generate. But this was more organized than that, more definite, and gave the impression of having intent, mischievous if not malevolent. It didn't fade as she stared at it, squinted shielded her eyes, but swirled and seemed on the brink of coalescing into a recognizable form, which Rebecca, suddenly, did not want to recognize.
Page iv
The Tides
Melanie Tem
Page v
A LEISURE BOOKS
August 1999
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10001
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to The publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
Copyright 1996 by Melanie Tem
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN 0-8439-4574-5
The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Page vi
This is for my father, John Kubachko, 191293, himself until the end. Thanks, Daddy.
And for Steve, who knows who he is
Page viii
Acknowledgments
My thanks to:
my agent, Richard Curtis, for his ongoing support, guidance, and inspiration;
my husband and first-line editor par excellence, Steve Rasnic Tem;
Roberta Robertson, for the story that inspired the title;
and the residents and staff of Westland Manor Nursing Center and Everett Court Community.
Page 1
Chapter 1
'Faye?'
That first evening when Faye came into his room - uninvited, unless he'd finally given off some terrible, mysterious summons as he'd been so afraid of doing twenty-eight years ago when she'd left him and the baby; unwelcome, except that his heart leaped in just that ancient and immediate way - Marshall stared and roared her name.
`Faye!'
Funny how he knew precisely, without even pausing to figure it, how long it had been since Faye had vanished, and what her relationship had been to him and their child, and what she'd left behind. He'd never heard from her again, but he'd imagined he would, with trepidation and shameful hope kept himself alert for signs. Funny how clearly he could picture her: piquant face, alabaster skin, the longest nails he'd ever seen on a woman shaped and polished into beautiful claws, clothes always thoughtfully chosen and arranged to appear carefree. He could hear her voice as if she were calling him now, which she was, crooning to him, singing; the sweetness of her voice, speaking and singing, had often both belied and brought out the nasty things she said, the raunchy things she sang.
Page 2
He could smell her flowery fragrance. He could taste and feel her as though she were in his arms, as though her clawed fingers were at his throat.
She was endangering their daughter. 'I've got my own life to live,' she'd flung at him more than once, screamed or sung at the baby. At least once she'd raised her hand; he'd stepped in just in time, and the blow, incompletely deflected, had shocked him when she'd slapped his forearm and spun away, not crying, not apologizing. Singing.
Funny how clear and present all that was. And often these days, Marshall couldn't remember what he'd had for breakfast, couldn't keep straight in his mind who anyone was to him. Often he had the sense that who he was, the person he'd have thought he'd come to know over the span of his lifetime - how long? seventy years? - was permeable and changeable. Perhaps it always had been thus. Perhaps he never had known for certain who he was.
He held onto the knowledge of his own nameMarshall Emigrepeating it as though that told him something, but really it didn't. Often he was frightened, sad. Sometimes, though, he merely let what would happen happen, and then he would come back into this reality or some other with the sense of having accrued new memories he couldn't quite place.
But he remembered Faye.
Faye was here now.
'Oh. Faye'
If Billie had been there - his wife; his companion; in his life infinitely longer than Faye had been, except that Faye had never really left his life although he'd tried to make hershe'd have understood right away, and she'd have been as upset as he was to see Faye. So for her sakeand
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