Song of Renewal (5 page)

“Don’t ever think that, Angel.”

Mama moved quickly to give Angel another warm hug. She looked into her daughter’s moist eyes, fingers gently pushing back a stray tendril from Angel’s forehead. “He doesn’t mean to shut you out, honey. He’s just got a lot on his plate right now, several new accounts, which is good, but it takes so much from him. Right at the moment, he has deadlines to meet. Soon, things will even out. Just wait. You’ll see.”

She kissed Angel’s cheek, gave another snuggly hug, then moved back to the sink and dried the counter. Angel watched her mother move about with a dancer’s lithe grace, looking elegant even doing household chores. Angel gave a little huff and shook her head of shoulder-length wheat-streaked hair. Unlike her, Mama had balletic poise, beautiful muscles, and turned-out legs. Even walking through the mall, Mama couldn’t help it – she stood lifted and tall.

She retained her distinctive “duck foot,” the turned-out stance of ballerinas, where toes lined up with outer hip bone. Once absorbed, Angel knew that these ballet technique fundamentals remained with dancers for life. At least, with most of them.

Her mother kept up by cross training with a variety of tools including Pilates, resistance training, and even Yoga. Frequently, Mama joined her in her dance studio upstairs, her coaching providing them time together. Doing stories together to dance and music gave Angel great pleasure. She especially loved to watch her mother do mimes with her expressive arms and hands, a thing that could turn comical in a heartbeat, throwing
Angel into stitches, and sending her rolling on the floor. Then just as suddenly, the same appendages would shift her emotions to tears. She loved to watch Mama improvise to her favorite John Barry movie themes, movements especially poignant and moving.

“Daddy’s right,” Angel said. “You do look like her, y’know? Margot Fonteyn? Dance like her, too. I saw her in a ballet movie video last night, one I rented and took to show Troy’s mama. She loves ballet and wanted to see it with me. I was curious because Daddy always said you looked and dance like Fonteyn. And you do.” She turned toward the television. “Doesn’t she, Troy?”

“What?”

“Mama looks like Margot Fonteyn, the famous ballerina – except Mama’s blond. Remember the ‘70s ballet movie we watched over at your house last night?”

“Oh! Yeah, you do look a lot like her, Mrs. Wakefield. Really.”

Mama tossed a big ol’ grin over her shoulder. “Muchas gracias.”

“I wish I could get lost in dance like you,” Angel said pensively, meaning it.

“Hey! Don’t sell yourself short. You’re coming along fine.” Then Mama grinned over her shoulder and sing-songed, “I’m so proud of my little ballerina.”

Angel sighed wistfully at the oft-repeated praise, one that had become their private little humor thing, a sentiment that both pleased and perplexed her. “I’m glad somebody’s proud of me.”

“Honey.” Mama turned to gaze at her, face solemn, “Your daddy
does
love you. With all his heart. Working so hard leaves him...weary and somewhat distant. He just needs to get over the present hump. He’ll soon be different toward you. Trust
me.” Angel heard the note of uncertainty in Mama’s declaration and knew that at times she, too, felt Daddy’s remoteness.

“I doubt that, Mama.” An uncharacteristic snort burst from Angel. “I’ve been waiting for years now and it seems the older I get, the more he shuts me out. For example, he knows how much I want to go to the Vines concert tonight and he flatly refuses to let me go. Troy’s even got free tickets, for cryin’ out loud!”

She waited for her mother’s reaction, which she knew would be well considered and wisely weighed. Mama was always there, no matter what. She always did the right thing. But tonight, Angel wasn’t interested in what constituted right. Her dad’s rebuff still stung terribly. The hurt nudged her toward recklessness.

“Why can’t he be like you? He acts like an old fart, fussing about the rainy weather and all. Mama, you know how Daddy is. Always looking on the dark side.”

Encouraged by her mother’s lack of rebuttal, she continued. “Know what he said? He said I sounded just like you, always conniving to get my way! Just because I hugged and kissed him. Is that not kinda paranoid?”

She saw her mama’s body tense and rise to ballerina full mast. Angel quickly lowered her lashes, convinced that her mother could look into her eyes and know.

“He said that, huh?” Mama stood stock still for a long moment, hands on hips.

“Yeah.” Guilt gnawed at Angel. Daddy had said something to that effect, hadn’t he? Yet she had obviously embellished on it. But she couldn’t back down now, with Mama getting all stirred up. Besides, she did deserve this one night out. Didn’t she? She’d done well on her schoolwork and danced her tail off in ballet classes. Her chin lifted. Yes, she did.

“So he said that, did he?” Mama wiped her hands on a dish towel. Her patrician nose flared delicately and her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Well, you two just go on to the concert, honey.” She marched over and gave her daughter another sound embrace. “And have a good time.”

Angel dashed to get her purse before Mama could change her mind or Daddy came downstairs. An hour had passed quickly as she’d talked with Mama. So they would have to scuttle to get there by eight. She and Troy hurried out the front door into the downpour, from beneath the dripping wet umbrella, she glimpsed Mama, peering out into the night, her lovely brow furrowed, just before she cried out, “Be careful, now. Y’hear?”

chapter three

Liza poured herself a cup of coffee, took it into the spacious den, and lowered herself onto the overstuffed cream, softleather sofa. She’d just finished making some calls upstairs for a parent-teacher meeting and wanted a few minutes of off time.

She took a scalding sip and admitted to herself that her rush to busy-ness was mostly to detract from the sting of Garrison’s callousness toward Angel. Never mind his smart-ass reference to Liza’s being manipulative. She rolled her eyes; that was another thing entirely.

Her gaze settled on a mantle portrait of the elder Wakefields.

At that moment, she hated Garrison’s parents for what they’d done to him in his youth. They weren’t truly bad people; exemplary citizens, actually. They just hadn’t wanted children. Garrison – the proverbial
accident –
had messed up their dreams of an unencumbered lifestyle of travel and leisure. During much of his youth, they’d pushed him away or shuttled him off to his grandparents when he threatened to intrude upon their intimacy.

Garrison, the end product, was a storehouse of contradictions. He had a level of sensitivity that could take away one’s breath. He was the most protective, noble and giving of men.
Yet, to him, giving meant materially and physically – not emotionally. Not anymore. Once, it had.

She pushed away the pity that always ambushed her when she thought of Garrison as a young, lonely boy. She couldn’t allow it to cloud her judgment when it came to Angel.

The next sip of coffee tasted bitter. Needed sugar.

What was it with Garrison? Why did he allow history to repeat itself in his father/daughter situation? Liza knew Garrison loved Angel, but couldn’t he handle her a bit more gently?

Liza took another hot sip, made a face, and firmly deposited the coffee on the glass-top. Had she done the right thing tonight in overruling Garrison? After all, he was being protective.

Yet….

She cocked her head and scrunched her forehead. Where exactly did paternal safeguarding end and neuroticism begin? At times, during his gloom-doom moods, Garrison seemed – to Liza – inclined to overkill, both on finances and fathering. Did everything have to be so life-and-death grim?

She knuckled her pulsing temples and closed her eyes, feeling like the pot calling the kettle black, for crying out loud. It was just that she couldn’t bear to see the crushed look on Angel’s young face when Garrison so blatantly rejected her overtures. Didn’t Garrison realize a girl’s need for her father’s acceptance and validation? The girl deserved some fun in her life.

Liza clicked on Fox News. A young woman was missing in Georgia. A college student. Her picture flashed across the screen. She was blond and had a big smile that reminded Liza of her own daughter. How sad.

The doorbell rang. She frowned as she uncurled her legs and headed for the door, wondering who it could be.

Garrison shifted in his chair and stretched his tired back. He stood and glanced at the antique mahogany wall clock, surprised that well over two hours had elapsed since he had begun working. He paused. Was that the doorbell? He couldn’t really tell over the rain, now a soft nettling hum against the tin.

Tonight’s progress pleased him. One logo, for a new dentistry clinic, read “Gentle Dental Care…Gentle Care for Sensitive Patients” in elaborately prepared script. Another logo, for a restaurant, read “WASABI… Traditional Japanese Cuisine.” Above it loomed an imposing Samurai warrior with signature topknot and kimono topped with kamishimo, sword raised high, ready to engage in battle. Under the logo, in intricate script, appeared the line “Chefs experienced in the art of tableside knife tossing and salt and pepper juggling.”

He shrugged. Not exactly a masterpiece or particularly challenging, but accounts like these put a roof over their heads and provided all the comforts of life. As long as he remained busy.

Garrison straightened his work and clicked off the desk lamp. The dampness outside left him with a chill. It was a good night to be inside.

Descending the stairs, he heard voices, soft at first, then Liza’s rising in alarm.

“No! Nooo!”

He spanned the last steps two at a time. At the open front door stood two uniformed highway patrolmen. Alarm blasted through him. The smell of rain wafted inside.

“What?” He rushed to Liza’s side and turned her to face him. Liza’s face was pasty white.

“What?” The word burst from him and he knew he really did not want to know what caused her to look like this. But he had to know.

“My God, Liza. What’s wrong?”

Her lips struggled to move, but tears trailed down her cheeks and the words choked off. He spun to face the two officers. “What’s going on here?” he demanded hoarsely.

“There’s been an accident and you’re needed at the hospital.”

Garrison’s brows drew together in confusion. “But…who?”

“Your daughter, sir. And the young man with her.”

“No, no. You’ve got the wrong house.”

He looked at Liza, brow furrowed.
Then why is she crying?

“But they’re here,” he insisted, confusion and desperation emanating from him like atomic discharges. His voice dropped to a whisper as he gazed at his wife. “Aren’t they?”

She gulped, swallowed, and replied in a voice barely above a whisper, “No, Garrison. No, they’re not.”

The ride to Spartanburg Regional Medical Center was silent, except for Garrison’s oft repeated, “Why? Why did you let them go?”

“Oh my God – what have I done?” murmured Liza. She struggled to breathe as the world crashed in upon her.
How could I have been so stupid? Reacting in anger, impetuously. How could I not have known how dangerous –

Near panic, she turned to her husband, whose hands gripped the steering wheel with knuckle-whitening intensity. “Garrison?” she whispered.

Help me, please. Tell me it’s going to be okay
, her heart cried out.

If he heard or sensed her desperation, he gave no indication. His face appeared cast in gray stone as he parked in the Emergency parking area and helped her from the car, not meeting her pleading gaze. Her legs felt rubbery and when she swayed with dizziness, his arm slid around her. He impelled her swiftly through the warm misting rain toward the entrance and
inside, where air conditioning slapped her damp clothing and flung her into chills.

Garrison relentlessly propelled her along the white corridor of the ER. There, a doctor ushered them into a small consultation room and seated them at a table.