A Family To Cherish (2 page)

She hoped Tabby would follow her into the kitchen, but the cat had already disappeared again. Barbara returned to the dining room with a steaming rib roast, browned potatoes, and a bowl of freshly shelled peas. “Eat well, everyone. There's plenty.”

“This is a wonderful dinner,” said Clive, helping himself to a generous portion of the roast. “Isn't it delicious, Harriet?”

She took a slice of beef and sniffed loudly. “Yes, I just wish I could taste something.”

“I don't want any,” said Janee, as Barbara passed the roast around the table. “Mama says we don't eat meat. She says we're veter…um, veterinarians.”

“Vegetarians,” corrected Nancy. “But that's okay, honey. Some folks do eat meat.”

“If you don't want any roast beef, maybe you'd like some peas, Janee,” said Barbara, forcing her tone to remain pleasant.

“She loves peas,” said Nancy.

“Do not,” said Janee.

Barbara gave the child a heaping spoonful of peas.

“Barb, are you still giving piano lessons here in your home?” asked Nancy.

“Yes, Nan. I have a dozen students.”

“That's marvelous. Do they perform anywhere?”

“They give a recital at the school twice a year. It's quite an event.”

“And are you still playing piano for the church?”

Barbara drew a sharp breath. “No, I gave that up quite a while ago.”

There was a sudden lull in the conversation. Barbara's mouth went dry. Was everyone waiting for her to explain why she would give up playing the piano when she loved it so much?

“So, Mr. Myers, what kind of work do you do?” asked Clive, breaking the silence.

“Whatever I can get,” said Paul between mouthfuls of roast beef. “I design computer software programs. Games mainly. For kids. Ever hear of Appalachian Ape Antics? Or The Elephant and the Eggplant? Or The Owl and the Octopus?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“Not my best work,” conceded Paul.

“Janee loves your games, Paul,” said Nancy, patting his arm. “Don't you, Janee?”

Janee didn't answer. She was carefully lining her peas up in her spoon.

Doug turned to Clive. “Speaking of kids and games, I've been wanting to talk to you about the hospital's plans to complete the new children's wing.”

“Oh, yes, the children's wing. How's that going?”

“Great, Clive—if we can just get the funds to finish the job.”

With a triumphant little smile, Janee piled the last of her peas in her spoon. Slowly she lifted the spoon
to her mouth, where it remained poised unsteadily in the air for a moment.

“Eat your peas, darling,” urged Nancy.

“Don't like peas.”

“Janee, your mother said to eat your peas,” said Paul.

“No!” With a twist of her wrist Janee flicked the spoon away from her mouth, catapulting the peas across the table. Two landed unceremoniously in Mrs. Van Peebles's cleavage. Dead silence reigned as all eyes focused on the two small green peas nestled in the matron's ample bosom.

Harriet stared down in horror at her embarrassing dilemma. “Merciful heavens!” she murmured under her breath.

Her husband leaned over and made a gesture as if to retrieve the peas, then apparently thought better of the idea. At last Harriet carefully plucked the peas from her bodice and placed them on her plate. “I think I've had quite enough peas,” she said faintly.

“I'm so sorry, Harriet,” said Barbara, her face flushing.

“It was just an accident,” said Nancy. “Wasn't it, Janee? You didn't mean to hit the nice lady with your peas, did you?”

Janee's lower lip trembled, but before a geyser of tears erupted, Mrs. Van Peebles again broke into a sneezing frenzy.

“Barbara, dear, are—are you sure you don't have cats?” Harriet stammered between sneezes.

“I'm afraid we do,” Barbara admitted. “Tabby was outside, but somehow she got inside. I'm so sorry.”

Mrs. Van Peebles looked at her husband with red, watery eyes. “Maybe we'd better go, Clive.”

Doug shoved back his chair and stood up. “Please, don't go, Harriet. We'll find the cat right away and put her out.”

Suddenly everyone but the Van Peebles was leaving the table and looking for the cat. Random choruses of “Here, kitty, kitty,” rose from the living room and dining room, but there was no sign of the animal. Just when Barbara was ready to admit defeat, Janee came bouncing to the table with Tabby in her arms.

“I found the kitty,” she trilled, all smiles.

But Tabby wasn't happy to be found. The hefty feline wriggled out of Janee's arms and sprang onto the tablecloth, knocking over a crystal goblet before jumping into the arms of a startled, swooning Harriet Van Peebles.

The evening ended shortly after that—a near calamity, but not a total disaster. At the door, as Doug helped Harriet on with her fur coat, Clive told Barbara confidentially, “Don't worry. The hospital will get the money to finish the children's wing. Harriet already made up our minds before we came. She has a warm spot for kids. And as ill-fated as this evening was, one of these days Harriet and I will
have a good laugh over it. And a good laugh is worth a lot when you get to be our age.”

Barbara gave Clive a quick hug. “Thank you. This means the world to Doug and me…personally.”

Clive met her gaze with tender, glistening eyes. “To tell you the truth, Barbara, that's why we're doing it. And if I have anything to say about it, you know the name they'll give the new children's wing. It'll be named after your little Caitlin.”

Tears blinded Barbara. The only words that would come were a whispered “Thank you.”

After the Van Peebles had gone, Barbara dried her eyes, put a smile in place, and went to find Nancy who was in the kitchen rinsing the dirty dishes. “You don't have to do that, Nan,” Barbara admonished. “Go to bed. You've had a long day.”

“No, it's the least I can do, Barb. We never meant to spoil your party.”

“It's okay. It was a bit rocky there for a while, but no serious harm done. In fact, I think the Van Peebles might actually have enjoyed themselves. At least the night was unforgettable.”

“Still, I'm sorry for the way Janee behaved.” Nancy looked at Barbara, her eyes shaded with contrition. “She's not a naughty child, Barb. You know that. Just curious and spunky. You must remember how impulsive and rambunctious a five-year-old can be.”

The words impaled Barbara. She reeled, wounded, unsteady; she couldn't reply.

Paul entered the kitchen just then with a stack of plates. “Nan, be quiet,” he scolded. “You know they don't talk about that.”

Nancy covered her mouth, stricken. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Barb. Forgive me. I didn't mean anything. I just thought you'd remember how it was—you know.”

Somehow Barbara found her voice. “Yes. I remember.”

“Which room do you want us in, Barb?” asked Paul, setting the plates on the counter.

“The large guest room upstairs at the end of the hall. It has a bathroom connected to a small bedroom for Janee. The beds are made, and clean towels are on the racks.”

Paul brushed a kiss on Barbara's forehead. “Thanks. You and Doug are the best. What time do you want us up for church?”

Barbara opened the dishwasher and began loading cups and saucers. “We haven't been going lately,” she said in a small, detached voice.

“You aren't going to church?” echoed Paul in disbelief.

Barbara turned to face her brother-in-law, but couldn't quite bring herself to meet his gaze. “You know how it is, Paul. We're so busy these days. Doug and I hardly have time for each other.”

“But church? You used to go every time they opened the doors. You got Nancy and me going.”

“And we'll get back one of these days, too,” she assured him. She turned back to her dishes, but she could still feel Paul's and Nancy's questioning eyes on her.

Barbara felt a flood of relief when Janee came bounding into the kitchen and diverted their attention. “Look, Mommy, look!” the child cried, bursting with excitement. “See the pretty bear!”

Barbara whirled around and stared at the familiar brown bear with the scarlet Victorian dress and floppy wide-brimmed hat. How had the child got hold of the irreplaceable Mrs. Miniver? Barbara snatched the bear from Janee's arms. “Give me that!”

Startled, Janee grabbed for the bear, but Barbara clutched the stuffed animal possessively to her breast. Janee stared up at Barbara, her large green eyes defiant. “I want it,” she said, jutting out her lower lip.

Barbara stooped down and looked Janee directly in the eye, her temper rising. She tried to keep the anger out of her voice as she demanded, “Tell me, Janee. How did you get this bear?”

Janee's tiny chin puckered. “I got it in the pretty room with dolls and teddy bears.” She turned to her mother and pleaded, “Can I sleep in the pretty room, Mommy? Can I please? Please?”

“No!” Barbara replied more shrilly than she had
intended. She was trembling, her hands cold as death. “You can't sleep in that room, Janee. It's not your room. Don't you ever go in there again!”

Janee stood her ground, a feisty little moppet, precocious, imperturbable. “Why can't I? Does another little girl sleep in the pretty room?”

Barbara didn't answer.

All she could think of was Caitlin.

C
aitlin's room.

At midnight, as if drawn by a force beyond herself, Barbara opened the door, flicked the light switch and stepped inside, cradling the Victorian teddy bear in her arms. The room looked exactly as it had four years ago. Other than this stuffed bear, not one item had been moved, except during dusting and cleaning. Ruffled Priscilla curtains with tiny sweetheart roses framed the windows. The canopy bed was neatly made with its downy white comforter trimmed with eyelet. A family of teddy bears was nestled together in the royal blue Queen Anne chair by the bed, awaiting the return of Mrs. Miniver, Caitlin's favorite. Barbara replaced it now, tenderly adjusting the red taffeta skirt and floppy hat.

Barbara scanned the room again with a sense of relief. Yes, everything was back in place, the way it
was meant to be. The white French provincial dressing table and bureau boasted a whimsical hodgepodge of dolls and books and games. The walls were bright with a mélange of crayon drawings, the paper yellowed now. And on the bed lay Caitlin's pink ruffled nightgown exactly as she had left it so long ago.

“Caitlin, my precious baby,” Barbara said with a muffled sob. “Dear God, why do I do this to myself? Why can't I forget?” She stepped back out of the room and shut the door, her hand trembling slightly as she turned the key in the lock. At least now no one could trespass and violate her daughter's memory.

The next morning, shortly after Doug left for the hospital, Barbara reluctantly joined Nancy, Paul, and Janee for their grand tour of Southern California, starting with Universal Studios.

“It's too bad Doug couldn't join us,” Nancy told Barbara as they stood in the long ticket line under a scorching August sun. Paul and Janee had moved to another line to see who got to the window first, and now Nancy seemed all too eager for chitchat. “You know, Barb, I told my brother he's become a stuffy workaholic. I said, ‘Doug, life is too short to spend every waking moment in some dreary office.' And don't tell me he's not, Barb. I can read between the lines. I say to him, ‘Doug, you and Barbara should be out having some fun and enjoying each
other.' Tell me the truth, Barbara. He doesn't have fun anymore, does he?”

“Work is his fun these days,” Barbara admitted. She looked away, her gaze moving absently over the restless crowds waiting at the ticket windows. She didn't want to get into this conversation with Nancy. How could she explain to Doug's sister what she couldn't articulate? What could she say?
When Caitlin was alive, we were a happy family brimming over with love and smiles and good times. Without Caitlin, our lives, our home, even our love has become an empty shell.

As if reading her thoughts, Nancy patted Barbara's arm and said softly, “God can give you His joy again, Barb. He never takes anything away without giving us something just as wonderful in its place.”

Barbara nodded dutifully, steeling herself. She wasn't in the mood to hear a sermon now, especially from Nancy, whose boundless fervor and exuberance for life had a way of exhausting the most intrepid of souls.

“You and Doug helped Paul and me discover that truth years ago,” Nancy went on earnestly, brushing her flyaway honey-blond hair back from her face. “You introduced us to Christ's love, Barb, and, thank God, our lives haven't been the same since.”

“I'm glad, Nancy. Doug and I are very happy for you…”

Nancy grinned, squinting against the sunlight. “I
bet you and Doug don't even realize what you did for us. I just wish we could return the favor.”

“Don't be silly, Nan.”

“Silly? I'm serious as a judge. But any gift or gesture I can think of pales by comparison. I mean, we're talking about eternity here. They don't make thank-you cards for that, do they?” Her lips arced in a whimsical smile. “Let's see. ‘Roses are red, violets are blue…. Since you showed us God's love, we're ever indebted to you.' It's not Wordsworth or even Snoopy and Charlie Brown, but you get the idea.”

Barbara moved forward, following the line. “Really, Nancy, Doug and I just did for you what someone else did for us long ago. We shared our faith, that's all. And now you're fine and we're fine. Everybody's fine!”

Nancy clasped Barbara's arm again. “Come on, Barb. Paul and I can both see how the two of you are hurting. We talked about it last night, and if there's anything we can do to help, let us know. We'd love to do it.”

Barbara wanted to say,
Just let us be.
Instead, she forced herself to reply sweetly, “Thanks, Nan, you're the best. But like I said, we're okay.”

And that was the stance Barbara clung to tenaciously over the next three days as she accompanied Nancy, Paul and Janee to Disneyland, Knott's Berry Farm and Laguna Beach, not to mention two pizza
houses, four fast-food restaurants, and one kiddieland carnival in the local mall.

No one could say Barbara Logan wasn't a trooper. She'd show Nancy she could have fun if it killed her. And it nearly did. She had the battle scars to prove it—a broken stacked heel, a torn linen jacket, a lost contact lens, and cotton candy stuck in her freshly coiffed hair. She'd never walked so much in her life, nor endured so many screaming kids, head-spinning amusement-park rides, and ear-splitting rap tunes. She was positively nauseated from too many greasy cheeseburgers, spicy pizzas, and hot dogs on a stick. For some reason, Nancy's vegetarianism went out the window when it came to eating out at California's leading tourist attractions.

When Paul and Nancy and little Janee piled into their van on Thursday morning for their drive home to San Francisco, Barbara stood waving goodbye in the driveway, grinning from ear to ear like the original Cheshire puss. Privately she was relieved that they were going home and that her life could get back to normal.
I couldn't face another roller coaster or eat another kiddie meal or face another surging, suffocating crowd of frenzied tourists!

That evening, Doug arrived home in time for dinner, no doubt knowing the coast was clear and the company gone. “So they got off okay?” he asked as he sat down at the table and spread his napkin over his lap.

“Yes, all three of them. Early this morning.” Bar
bara set a casserole of chicken and noodles on the table and sat down across from Doug.

“I guess they had a good time,” he mused, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his iced tea.

“The time of their lives,” said Barbara through clenched teeth. She was suddenly angry, so angry it surprised her. Her hand almost trembled as she handed him the tossed salad. “No thanks to you, Doug.”

He looked at her, one brow arching. “You know I had to work.”

“Every day? You couldn't take one day off to be with your own sister who comes to visit just once every few years?”

“I was here in the evenings.”

“When everyone was too tired to visit.”

“All right, so I'm the bad guy. So what's new? What do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing. It's too late. Forget it.”

Doug let his fork clatter on his plate. “Don't play the sweet little martyr with me, Barb. You know
you
didn't want to be out there running all over town with my sister and her kid, either.”

“No, but I went anyway, didn't I?”

“No one twisted your arm.”

“I went because she's your sister, and someone in this family has to act like life is normal, no matter how skewed it really is.”

A tendon tightened along Doug's jaw. “We play this same record over and over again, don't we,
Barb? We keep going in vicious little circles. When will it ever end?”

She speared a morsel of chicken, but had no desire to eat. Her stomach was in knots, her throat constricting. “If you think I like things this way—”

They were both silent for a long miserable moment. Finally he asked coolly, “So how did it go with Janee?”

“Janee?”

“Yeah. The kid who makes Dennis the Menace look like an angel. Did she behave herself?”

Barbara's anger smoldered. Doug had an infuriating way of changing the subject whenever they got too close to painful truths. “If you must know, Janee drove me up a wall,” she replied. “She had me pulling my hair. I don't think I could have tolerated that child in this house for one more hour.”

“Come on, Barb. She couldn't have been that bad.”

“How would you know? You weren't here. And she was asleep by the time you got home.”

“From what I saw of her, she's a spunky little tyke. Cute as a bug's ear. Okay, maybe a bit too mischievous for my tastes.”

“Are you kidding? Paul and your sister never discipline that child. She's spoiled and impudent. Worst of all, they think everything she says and does is perfectly charming.”

Doug's expression softened. “Weren't we that way, too, Barbie?”

“No. Never. All right, almost never.”

“So what did Janee do that was so bad?”

Barbara inhaled sharply. “She spilled grape juice on our plush carpet. She trampled my flower beds picking roses for her mother. She ran up and down the stairs and slammed doors and did a Tarzan yell that rattled my eardrums and put her muddy shoes on my velvet sofa.” Barbara's voice quavered with an onrush of emotion. “And she kept begging me to let her sleep in the ‘pretty room,' as she called it.”

“Maybe you should have let her,” said Doug under his breath.

Barbara stared at him in astonishment. “You don't mean that.”

“Don't I? Maybe it's time we let it go, Barb. Stop making it a monument or a memorial or a shrine, or whatever you want to call it.”

Barbara pushed her chair back from the table and stood up, her ankles wobbly. “I'm not hungry, Doug. Will you put the food away? I'm going to bed.”

He stared at her, his brows knitting in a frown. “What about the dishes?”

“Leave them. I'll do them in the morning.”

He bent over his plate, scowling, and muttered, “A lot of good it does, me coming home for dinner. You just walk off. Next time I'll pick something up at the hospital.”

“Fine. You'll probably find better company there, too.”

“Now that you mention it, I probably will.”

She pivoted and, without a backward glance, marched out of the room, quickly ascending the stairs to the bedroom. She undressed and slipped into her most revealing negligee, perversely hoping to tempt her husband just so she could reject his advances. She hated herself for behaving this way, hated the terrible dead-end course their marriage had taken, but she felt powerless to change anything. It was as if she and Doug were actors on a stage, spewing words they didn't mean, words forced upon them by circumstances beyond their control.

Barbara had felt powerless since the day Doug had told her there was nothing they could do to save Caitlin. It seemed the only power she or Doug had these days was to inflict hurt on each other. It was what they were best at. What irony that the wounded had become so skilled at wounding one another. What hope was there for healing?

Barbara was nearly asleep when she heard Doug come up to bed. She lay still, her back to him as he climbed in beside her and rolled onto his side, away from her. She felt the weight of his body on the mattress, heard the springs creak. She waited, her breathing slow and rhythmic, pretending to slumber. Would he touch her? What would she do if he did? Should she risk letting him know she was awake and needed his closeness?

Barbara's questions faded when she heard her husband's deep, steady breathing. She lay in the darkness, listening, waiting. Doug was so close to her that she could feel his warmth as he lay stretched out beside her under the covers. And yet he had never seemed more distant. And she had never felt more alone.

In the middle of the night the telephone rang, startling them both out of sleep. With a muffled snort, Doug sat up and grabbed the bedside phone. Barbara sat up, too, her mind still shrouded in the gauzy cobwebs of a dream. She turned on the lamp and tried to focus on what Doug was saying. By his tone she knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

“Yes, this is Douglas Logan,” he was saying. “Nancy Myers? She's my sister. What? When? Good Lord, no! Where did it happen? Are they—? Yes, I'll be there. What hospital? All right. We'll catch the next available plane.”

He hung up the phone and looked at her, his face drained of color, the lines around his eyes taut, distorted with shock and fear. She knew that look; it was coldly, frighteningly familiar; she had seen it a thousand times in her memory. That look had shattered her life, turned her world upside down. And now it was happening again. Her heart pumped with dread. “What happened?” she demanded.

His voice was tight, hushed. “That was the police. It's Nancy. Their car crashed just south of San Francisco.”

Her skin prickled with an icy foreboding. “Oh, Doug, no! Are they okay?”

“They're in the hospital. In some little rural town. A suburb south of San Francisco. We've got to go.”

“Of course. I'll throw a few things in a bag.”

He nodded. “I'll call the airline.”

It was amazing how in sync she and Doug could be when an emergency demanded it, she thought as she packed a suitcase, tossing in underwear, sleep-wear, toiletries, and a couple of changes of clothes for each of them. She made sure she had their address book, checkbook and a credit card, and put out enough food and water to last Tabby for a couple of days.

“I've got us booked on a red-eye special out of Burbank at four a.m.,” said Doug, as she ran a brush through her hair. “They'll have a rental car waiting for us in San Francisco.”

Barbara and Doug said little to each other during the drive to the airport and the flight to San Francisco. Each was tight-lipped, their thoughts turned inward, their emotions on hold.

They arrived at San Francisco International shortly after five a.m. The airport was nearly deserted, with only a few passengers milling around or catching a catnap on some iron bench. The huge superstructure with its endless high-ceilinged corridors was so silent and everyone so hushed that Barbara had the feeling she was walking through a mausoleum. The only immediate sound she heard was
the echo of her own heels on the hard tile floor as she and Doug traversed the long hall to the baggage carousel. After retrieving their suitcase and securing their rental car, Doug got directions, and they drove the twenty miles to St. Mary's Hospital north of Hillsborough. Again, mostly in silence.