For Love of Audrey Rose Read Free Page A

so calmly, so omnisciently, outside of Ivy’s school? All unresolved, unsolved, waiting for time to work its slow but certain cure, to transform the violence and pain to a tender acceptance.
    But perhaps the list of actors in this tragedy is not complete. Perhaps, in memory of the quiet girl whose courage could not in the end save her, we must add:
    Audrey Rose: Born September 5, 1959. Died August 4, 1964, thirty seconds before the birth of Ivy Templeton. Death due to smoke inhalation.
    Ivy Templeton: Born August 4, 1964. Died February 3, 1975, 10:43 A.M. Death due to convulsive closure of the larynx.
    Did Audrey Rose return August 4, 1964? And, if so, who died February 3, 1975, 10:43 A.M.?

BOOK I
    BILL
    “I become the fire of life which is in all things that breathe, In union with the breath that flows in and flows out I burn.”
    The Words of Krishna

1
    February 3, 1975. 11:45 P.M.
    It was dark. Bill tasted salt on his lips. Suddenly he became violently nauseous. Terrible images pulled at the back of his brain, grinning monsters who violated Ivy in sparkling space. There was a feeling of black pressure, of perpetually drowning.
    Bill heard a deep gurgling, like water choked in a filled drain.
    “Are you awake, Mr. Templeton?” said a soft voice.
    The gurgle had been his own voice, disembodied, with a torpor thick as tar.
    A pretty face moved into his field of vision. Soft brown eyes and short brunette hair swept up under a white cap. She smiled.
    “Can you hear me, Mr. Templeton?”
    A gentle hand and sponge wiped at his mouth and chest. Bill’s head was turned to the side and the breathing came more easily.
    A small light went on, a soft amber that glowed against cold green walls. The sheets were stained from Bill’s nausea. He became conscious of the rhythmic breathing of his own chest, drawing, expelling, drawing, expelling.
    “Janice,” he mumbled weakly.
    “Your wife waited six hours,” the nurse said. “Then she was taken to a hotel. She’ll come back in the morning.”
    Bill turned his head around. Now he knew where he was. The hospital ward had four beds in it, but his was the only one occupied. The others were freshly made and the screens pulled out of the way. It was abnormally quiet. Outside there seemed to be a black screen over the windows. Then he saw her watch. It was nearly midnight.
    “Janice,” Bill repeated.
    “Your wife is at the Darien Central Hotel.”
    Bill groaned. His lips were so parched, they had cracked. The nurse dipped her finger in a glass of water and spread it across his lips, then helped him drink. The sensation of cold water going down into his body revived him.
    Suddenly his eyes darted around the room. He stared at the nurse.
    “Where’s Ivy?” Bill whispered.
    The nurse hesitated. “There’s been an autopsy.”
    Bill’s face slowly transformed into a dolorous mask, the kind that is sold hanging on sticks for Chinese New Year, a human face distended into curved lines of grief.
    “I’m sorry,” the nurse said quietly.
    Bill tried to move his limbs but all that happened was that his chest rose and his back arched away from the bed. The nurse mopped his forehead with a soft cloth.
    Bill stared into the soft brown eyes. He had the wild, distraught face of a madman.
    “I didn’t mean to,” he hissed. “The test was supposed to—to— Oh, God—” Bill fell back and began to weep.
    The nurse discreetly pressed a small plastic button by the bed. After several minutes, a physician walked into the room. His eyes were red and he needed a shave. He had a barrel chest and short, beefy arms with white hair and a thick gold wrist watch.
    The physician put a comforting hand on the nurse’s shoulder. She made room for him, and he sat down next to Bill.
    “Listen to me, Mr. Templeton. Your wife waited here almost seven hours before we insisted that she get some rest. She was in a state of near-collapse.”
    Bill’s mumbling ceased. Then his eyes narrowed. He faced the