Authors: Patti Hill
Seeing Things (35 page)
“I'm so sorry. Please,
please
forgive me.”
please
forgive me.”
With my hand on the doorknob, I stopped. Still uncertain about my ability to climb stairs, I scooted up the risers on my hiney again. I pulled myself up on the newel post and peg legged my way to Suzanne's bedroom door, making as much noise as the deep-piled runner allowed. I scanned the room. Suzanne lay face down on the bed. I tapped on the doorjamb.
“Oh.” She stood like a soldier. “What do you want?” She kicked off her shoes. “I'm getting in the shower. Can we talk later?”
I stepped into the room, struggling to see what I could of her face. Strands of black hair clung to her wet cheeks. “You sound upset.”
She threw up her arms. “Brilliant!”
“You shouldn't be alone.”
“Says who? You? You talk to the walls.”
My sister Evelyn had owned a Yorkie who snapped at me in much the same way until I sat down. Then the dog had jumped into my lap and presented her belly for a good rubbing. People aren't so different from dogs. I continued toward the bed. “If you don't mind.” I sat down and patted the mattress. “I've lived a long time. Believe me, sorrow only becomes more menacing in the quiet.”
“I . . . I'm not used to . . .”
I waited.
“I had a plan,” she said.
Metal ticked and the air conditioner purred.
I patted the bed again. “Your cries nearly ripped my heart open. I miscarried at five months. A little girl between Andy and Diane. It felt like someone had skinned me alive, but no one wanted to talk about it, least of all Chuck. It was me and the big, black universe, or so I'd thought.”
Suzanne fell onto the bed, the mattress shimmying with her jagged breaths. Her cries rubbed at my memories like clearing frost from a windshield. I was back at St. Francis Hospital, the maternity ward.
“I shared a labor room with another woman,” I said. “She smoked one cigarette after another. Long before my contractions grew strong enough to deliver the baby, she delivered a healthy boy. I felt cheated, betrayed. It took me a long time to feel whole again. Not even Diane . . . well, you don't substitute one life for another, now, do you?” I blotted hot tears with my sleeve. “We named her Evangeline, like the poem I'd read in high school.”
I searched the bed, feeling for Suzanne's hand. When our fingers touched, she clutched at me. My arthritic fingers complained, but we sat that way, holding hands, until her sobs quieted and her breathing settled into an easy rhythm. My shoulder burned at the odd angle, yet I held on, not rubbing the back of her hand with my thumb like I would with my own children, but returning pressure for pressure. Her hand slipped out of mine as she sat up.
“We have reservations at the Palace tonight,” she said.
I stood up. “Lovely place.”
“I suppose you think I'm some kind of obsessive-compulsive nut, that having a baby is something to check off my list.”
“Nothing of the sort. You want to be a mother to see if you can love someone who poops on you. It's a universal trait of women during the childbearing years.”
Suzanne expelled a brittle laugh. “The truth is, I don't deserve a child.”
“Nobody does. Children are a gift, a good and perfect gift from the Father of lights.”
“He would neverâ”
I touched her arm. “Then you must get to know him better.”
She stepped back and the connection between us dissipated like a mist.
“I think I'll finish unpacking.” And I hobbled away.
THE DOOR BETWEEN THE garage and kitchen slammed shut and keys clattered on the countertop. “Ma? Ma, are you here?” The tone of his disapproval stung me. If Chuck had been hereâEmory?âhe would have told Andy to go back outside and stay there until he could talk to me respectfully.
“I'm in here, reading.”
He stood in the doorway, hands on hips. “I rescheduled three meetings to pick you up at the cottage.”
I smiled. “Oh dear, Son, I'm sorry. I decided to come home a little early.”
“You could have called. Besides, you left Ms. Carlyle in a tizzy. She didn't like you comparing Grand View to Alcatraz.”
“I was a little upset when I left. I'm fine now.”
Andy ran his hands through his hair, high evidence that I'd pushed him to the brink.
“Have a seat,” I said, gesturing to the bed.
“I'm expecting a call.”
“I imagine your BlackBerry will ring in here.”
Andy leaned against the dresser. “What's up? I'm needed at the office.”
Talk about a hostile audience. “Let me try to explain. When we sent you off to college, your father and I knew chances of your doing something stupid or risky was close to 100 percent. I imagined the worst, fretted day and night. I actually lost a few pounds. I'm sure you remember my frequent telephone calls.”
“I remember.” He crossed his arms. “Is this a long story, Ma?”
“Not so long. Do you have a minute? I'm terribly sorry for the trouble I caused.”
He looked at his watch. “Go ahead.”
“One morning, after you'd been to college for several weeks, I opened the newspaper to discover Alan Clark had been killed in a car accident. You remember the Clark family? They lived in town just off Pearl on King Street. Alan was a couple years behind you. His sisterâ”
“I remember the Clark family.”
“Anyway, there'd been some drinking. I couldn't cook or sleep or eat. Diane thawed something from the freezer three nights in a row. I shuddered each time the phone rang. Your father thought I'd gone off the deep end. I mourned that boy as if he had been you. It could have been, you know?”
“That was a long time ago.” He straightened. “I'm a much more careful driver, I promise.”
“I wish I'd understood about faith better back then. God had you in his pocket all along. Of that I'm sure. He still does. But back then, I simply turned fatalistic to protect my heart. I sang along with Doris Day on the radio, “
Que será, será.
Whatever will be, will be.”
Que será, será.
Whatever will be, will be.”
“You needn't have worried. I spent most of my time in the library.”
“My point exactly. The tables have turned. Now you're imagining all sorts of terrible things that could happen to me. Your tenderness warms my heart, but Son, God has me in his pocket too. If something bad happens, he's with me, and for me that's all I need to know.”
Andy grunted.
“Yes, well, just know that I absolve you of responsibility for my personal safety and well-being.”
“You can't justâ”
“Sure I can. You did just that when you went off to college.”
“As the eldest, especially with Diane out of the country . . . who else will take care of you?”
“You have plenty on your plate with a child and a wife.”
“There may come a day.”
“Yes, there may, but not today.”
“Will you at least stay until we're sure your ankle is healed?”
“Yes. And I promise, no more donuts.”
Chapter 37
Although I was born in New Mexico, the first house I remember living in was an old farmhouse that had been part of the Sugarlands acquisition for Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I'd hoped the farmer had been better at growing corn than plumbing. Black water pipes snaked up and down the walls, delivering hot and cold water to the upstairs bathroom. Pa called the plumbing cantankerous.
Evelyn always woke first, which suited me fine. She came out of the bathroom looking like a painted doll. Most mornings Ma sent her back to the bathroom to wash her makeup off. One morning, I listened for the squeak of Evelyn's bed coils, but I kept my eyes closed and breathed slow and deep. It took her a good long while to gather courage to touch the icy floorboards. As soon as the bathroom door clicked closed, I wiggled into fat wool socks. The cold air rose under my nightie to run an icy finger up my legs. I grabbed a quilt from the bed and headed toward the basement where the only toilet perched thronelike up three steps. With the sound of water rushing through the pipes toward Evelyn, I flushed and ran. The pipes drummed the walls. Inside the shower, the water turned molten and then as cold as lake water in the springâthis I knew from personal experience. I raced up the two flights of stairs to jump under the covers, face toward the wall to hide my flushed cheeks. Evelyn came into the room shivering like Ma's washing machine. She dropped the towel, and I saw her red-hot hiney. I giggled, and you'd have thought I'd lit her hair on fire.
My days of scalding and flash freezing my sister ended abruptly.
By contrast, living in Andy's house was a bit like living in a tomb. Although the family was busy preparing for a coming-home dinner for Suzanne's parents, no pipes pinged. Doors opened and closed with nary a bump. Toilets flushed noiselessly. I ticked up the volume of the iPod and pushed the recliner back, but distracted as I was, I'd missed something of the Flannery O'Connor story I was currently enjoying. I pressed pause until the screen darkened.
Suzanne's parents were snowbirds, escaping winter by scurrying off to the desertâScottsdale, I thinkâwhereas I welcomed the extremes of weather. The biting cold of winter tested my mettle and kept me as humble as I cared to be. My theory, always calculated, always charitable, is that people fear the quiet of winter more than the cold. Sequestered within the walls of my cabin, memories seeped in, misspoken words haunted, and more lately, a void as menacing as the Grand Canyon reminded me I owned not one original thought. When I could not, in fact, name the day of the week, I rounded up my younger friends for a snowshoeing trip through a nearby ghost town. The need for fresh ideas faded against the startling contrast of sky, snow, and the black green of spruce trees. Trees didn't care if it was Sunday or Tuesday. Instead, they added girth and strength from bending with the winds, growing tougher with each passing winter. I added girth each winter too, with cinnamon rolls at Elsie's Diner and slow-cooked roasts with plenty of gravy, but I could still bend to strap on my snowshoes. Better still, I stayed with the pack of young friends, huffing and puffing up each hill like the little engine that could. I had no choice. I followed Josie's red jacket unwaveringly or ended up sitting in the snow, hoping for someone to notice I'd been left behind. That only happened once.
Andy came to the door, the scent of his aftershave rushing before him. “You're not ready.”
I'd prepared myself for his irritation but not for the surprise in his voice. “This is a time for you and Suzanne's parents. They've been away for a long time. I'm sure you have a lot to talk about.”
“Martin forwards twenty e-mails daily, mostly ridiculous urban legends about poisoned envelopes or stalking identity thieves, all of which he expects me to reply to. So no, we don't have much to say to one another.”
I'd rehearsed my response, attempting to say the words without a hint of bitterness. I filtered the words through a forced smile. “I prefer to stay home. I'm listening to a collection of Flannery O'Connor's short stories. Honestly, they're as terrifying as they are beautiful. I'm going to leave a light on when I go to bed tonight.”
“You're still angry about your night at the cottage, aren't you?”
Lord, I'm lowering my son through the roof to you for the millionth time. Catch his gaze and his heart.
“You meant well. I can see that, sweetie.”
He sat on the end of the bed, leaned forward. “Really, Ma, you'd be doing me a favor. They talk about their Scottsdale friends as if I know them. They indulge every detail. I hear about so-and-so's chemotherapy and so-and-so's brand-new motor home with four pullouts, and shouldn't we be taking more trips, seeing the world? Martin's completely forgotten what it's like to run a business.”
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