Blood Pact

that to me if he could help it.”

    "He'd call?" Celluci couldn't prevent the mocking tone.

    Vicki's chin went up. "Yeah. He'd call." He wouldn't leave me to think he was dead if he could help it. You don't do that to someone you say you love. "We find my mother. We find Henry." He couldn't call if he was dead. He isn't dead. "Do you understand?”

    Actually, he did. After nine years, he'd gotten proficient at reading her subtext. And if his understanding was all she'd take . . .
    Celluci spread his hands, the gesture both conciliatory and an indication that he had no wish to continue the discussion.

    Some of the stiffness went out of Vicki's stance. "You make coffee," she told him, "while I shower.”

    Celluci rolled his eyes. "What do I look like? Live-in help?”

    "No." Vicki felt her lower lip tremble and sternly stilled it. "You look like someone I can count on. No matter what." Then, before the lump in her throat did any more damage, she wheeled on one bare, heel and strode out of the room.

    His own throat tight, Celluci pushed the curl of hair back off his face. "Just when you're ready to give up on her," he muttered.
    Shaking his head, he went to make the coffee.

    Running her fingers through her wet hair, Vicki wandered into the living room and dropped onto the couch. She could hear Celluci mumbling to himself in the kitchen and, remembering what had happened on other occasions, decided it might be safer not to bother him when he was cooking. Without quite knowing how it happened, she found herself lifting the box of her mother's personal effects and setting it in front of her on the coffee table.

    I suppose no day's so bad that you can't make it worse.

    There was surprisingly little in it: a sweater kept hanging over the back of the office chair, just in case; two lipsticks, one pale pink, the other a surprisingly brilliant red; half a bottle of aspirin; the coffee mug; the datebook with its final futile message; her academy graduation portrait; and a pile of loose papers.

    Vicki picked up the photograph and stared into the face of the smiling young woman. She looked so young. So confident. "I looked like I thought I knew everything.”

    "You still think you know everything." Celluci handed her a mug of coffee and plucked the picture out of her grasp. "Good God.
    It's a baby cop."

    “If I ignore you, will you go back into the kitchen?”

    He thought about it for a second. "No.”

    "Great." Pulling her bathrobe securely closed, Vicki lifted out the loose paper. Why on earth did Mrs. Shaw think I'd want a bunch of Mother's notes? Then she saw how each page began.

    Dear Vicki: You're probably wondering why a letter instead of a phone call, but I've got something important to tell you and I thought I might get through it easier this way, without interruptions. I haven't written a letter for a while so I hope you'll forgive . . .

    Dear Vicki: Did I tell you the results of my last checkup? Well, I probably didn't want to bore you with details, but . . .

    Dear Vicki: First of all, I love you very much and . . .

    Dear Vicki: When your father left, I promised you that I'd always be there for you. I wish I . . .

    Dear Vicki: There are some things that are easier to say on paper, so I hope you'll forgive me this small distance I have to put between us. Dr. Friedman tells me that I've got a problem with my heart and I may not have long to live. Please don't fly off the handle and start demanding I see another doctor. I have.

    Yes, I'm afraid. Any sensible person would be. But mostly I was afraid that something would happen before I found the courage to tell you.

    I don't want to just disappear out of your life like your father did. I want us to have a chance to say goodbye. When you get this letter, call me. We'll make arrangements for you to come home for a few days and we'll sit down and really talk.

    I love you.

    The last and most complete letter was dated from the Friday before Marjory Nelson died.

    Vicki fought tears and with shaking hands laid the letters back in the box.

    "Vicki?”

    She shook her head, unable to push her voice past an almost equal mix of grief and anger. Even if the letter had been mailed, they still wouldn't have had time to say good-bye. Jesus Christ, Mom, why didn't you have Dr. Friedman call me?

    Celluci leaned forward and scanned the top page. "Vicki, I . . .”

    "Don't." Her teeth were clenched so tightly it felt as though there was an iron band wrapped around