Tomorrow's Sun (6 page)

“Wait a sec, Lex.” He walked back and held the top of the ladder securely. She scrambled up and he made introductions.

“Hi.” Lexi nodded to Emily and surveyed the room. “Wow. Cool. It’s like a church up here.” She scampered over to the bench, a straight-backed church pew. “Wouldn’t this be an awesome place to pray?”

Embarrassed that he was embarrassed, Jake nodded. “If Grace Ostermann put this up here, it’s been years since anyone’s prayed here.” He snuck a quick look at Emily.
Unless you did
. “She had bad knees. I used to see her limping around with her cane”—he regretted the word as it left his mouth—“in the garden. I don’t think she could have climbed up, but maybe she could have.” The old saying about digging out of a hole with a shovel came to mind.

Emily shook her head and the shadow of a smile crossed her lips. Absolution? She must be used to insensitivity.

Lexi picked up the quilt and folded it, like the good little housekeeper Ben was turning her into. “Jake, did you see this?” she whispered, running her hand across the quilt.

He took a closer look and nodded, his throat tightening. He looked at Emily. “My sister, Lexi’s mom, was a quilt show addict. She died almost a year ago.”

“I’m sorry. For both of you.”

Jake had to hand it to her for not spewing the platitudes so many people felt necessary. “Thank you.”

Lexi walked to the window overlooking the river and an awkward silence descended. Jake thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “About what I said earlier—have you hired anyone yet?”

“Not yet.” The slightest of smiles once again teased the corner of Emily’s mouth. “I haven’t changed my mind about what needs to be done.”

Not really feeling it, he matched her smile. “I didn’t figure you had.” Convictions took sides in his head, but it wasn’t really a contest. “The thing is”—he kept his sigh as silent as he could—“I have.”

Emily woke on Saturday morning with a sneeze that ricocheted off the high ceiling of the dining room. Not surprising, since she’d slept ten inches off a floor with cracks wide enough to house generations of dust mites. She stretched her neck and shoulders, working from top to bottom to loosen the kinks from eight hours of driving and another eight on an air mattress. Her physical therapist had told her to stop and walk around every two hours on the trip. Now she wished she’d taken his advice.

Rolling not-so-gracefully onto her yoga mat, she arched her back and rocked her pelvis, feeling every one of the shadowy lines that still showed on X-rays.

Her stomach protested her supper of caramel rice cakes and stale peanuts. She needed to find a restaurant and then a grocery store. She dipped her head toward the floor, arms parallel to her body, held the position, breathing slow and deep, then slid her arms forward in an extended puppy pose. Two breaths into the stretch, her phone rang. She sat up, staring at an inhabited cobweb on the crown molding in the corner as she reached behind her back for her phone. “Hello.”

“Hi, honey.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, Em.” Her father’s “happy voice” shot across Lake Michigan as if he were in the same room. “You’re on speaker phone. How was your trip?”

“Great.” She tailored her tone to harmonize with her parents’ hopes. “Perfect weather.”

“And you’re not too stiff from the drive?”

“Nope.” Depending on how one defined
too
.

“Did you stay at the house or get a hotel room?”

“I slept on the floor at the house. They left it nice and clean.” She narrowed her eyes at her eight-legged roomie. “I slept great.” That, surprisingly, was true.

The questions continued through the cobra pose and the bridge. Her mother giggled. “You’re exercising, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Multitasking again.”

“The trip didn’t affect your energy level any.”

The trip sapped me, Dad. I’m stretching so I can walk to the bathroom
. She’d lived with her parents since rehab ended, but she’d hidden her morning routine, along with her private pharmacy and her tears, behind closed doors. “Yup. Feeling great.” Another week under their roof would have driven her back to the dock and a handful of pills. Long-distance faking was far easier.

“E-mail pictures of the remodeling. Mom’s going to start a scrapbook for you.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Sooo …” Her mother’s voice rose to a squeal. “What did you think of Susan’s news?”

“What news?”

“She didn’t call you?”

“No.”

Silence. And then her father cleared his throat. “You knew she was having a sonogram yesterday, didn’t you?”

Emily closed her eyes. “No.”

“It’s a boy.”

Lowering her head, she waited out the vertigo. “That’s wonderful.”

Her mother giggled. “We’ll do a video chat when she’s here on Friday. She can show you the pictures.”

Emily squeezed the phone. “I don’t think I’ll have Internet by then.”
Or ever
. “Small town, you know.”

“Well, then, we’ll just talk to you on speaker phone. It’ll be just like you’re here with us. Almost.”

“Okay”—
I won’t answer, but
—“call Friday.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

With the weight of half truths adding guilt to her stiffness, she shuffled to the bathroom and flipped the switch. A lightbulb in the fixture above the de-silvering mirror burned out with a
pop
, leaving a single clear globe still working. It didn’t really matter. Her makeup was packed away in a plastic bin in the van and would likely stay in the cellar ensconced in Rubbermaid the whole time she was here. By the time she’d flipped her way across the country to a time and a place where she might actually care what she looked like, every tube and bottle would be past its expiration date. Some of it should have been stamped
RIP
long before she’d finished rehab.

The bathroom didn’t have a vanity. No place to set mascara and blush even if she’d wanted to. She reached for the toothpaste and knocked it onto the floor. Emily sighed. There had been a time she’d made a career out of the simple move this required. Bend, scoop up a child, wipe a nose, kiss a boo-boo, bend back down. Effortlessly.

Focus on the here and now
. She had a cliché for every situation and, step by painful step, the trite phrases were getting her through, moving her beyond. Life might never again shine like it once had, but a dim light glowed at the end of her tunnel, which, in her case, ended just short of the Pacific. The closer she got to San Francisco Bay and the farther she got from the people who wanted to wrap her in cotton batting like a china doll who might fall and break again, the brighter the light became.

“Don’t go.”
Her mother’s voice whispered in the echoey room, blurring her view of the present.
“You’re surrounded by people who love you.”
The air compressed around her.
“We just want to help, Em.”

A year and a half and they hadn’t yet realized she wasn’t fixable.

Sliding the toothpaste tube to the middle of the floor with the tip of her cane, she eased onto one knee and picked it up.
Stay present in the present. Describe your surroundings
. Dim light…white tiles… octagon shaped…dark blue grout…tiles around the toilet cracked… mirror above sink cracked…plaster cracked…

Like lines on an X-ray.

Halfway to the van she noticed the male cardinal perched on the driver’s side mirror. His call to his mate reminded Emily of her father’s Sunday morning voice.

“She’s a woman. Cut her some slack. You got all the natural beauty—she has to work at it.” She pictured her mother running barefoot out the door to church, carrying shoes and earrings, a piece of toast in her mouth.
I’m coming, Bob
.

Karen and Bob. She’d name her little red neighbors after her parents.

Squinting against the morning sun, Emily stood still. A hundred feet behind her, the Fox River whooshed under the bridge. Water trickled in the ditch along the road. A soft breeze teased the straps on her bike rack as if beckoning her to free her Trek from its restraints. The cardinal tweeted. “You think I should go for it, don’t you, Bob?”

Emily glared at the bike. Her therapist had said he didn’t think she was quite ready. But that was a week ago. After all the hours she’d logged on a stationary bike in therapy, how different could this possibly be? She reached in the van for her GPS and hooked it to the handlebars as it searched for a restaurant. Looping the handles of her purse over her shoulders like a backpack, she shoved her cane crosswise beneath it and freed the bike.

“Hi.” The small, disembodied voice startled her.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” This time it was a little louder, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

“Where are you?”

“Up here.”

Emily walked around the front of the van and stared at the trees that ran between her house and the bridge. A bright green shoe wiggled about five feet off the ground. Like the picture-search pages her preschoolers loved, the rest of Michael blended with the tree. “What are you doing up there?”

“Getting a frog. Wanna see?”

“Sure.” She pulled out her cane and made her way across the bumpy lawn. “You’re camouflaged.”

“Like a tree frog?”

“Yep. All I can see is one of your Crocs.” She ducked under a low branch. The bark was shiny and slightly pinkish. Growing up in Michigan, she’d spent half her childhood playing in apple trees. Would this one bear fruit? “There you are. You’re a really good hider.”

“Wanna hold him?” Michael sat on a branch about a foot above her head. She stood eye-to-eye with a Sponge Bob Band-Aid.

She held cupped hands up to him. “Sure.”

Michael opened his hands slowly into hers. The soft little body squirmed.

“Are you going to keep him?”

“For as long as Mom says. She doesn’t like animals.” His eyes widened. “Could I keep him at your house?”

Something warm and wet dripped through her fingers. “Just for a day, okay? He won’t live very long if he’s not free.”

“Okay. Just for a day.” Michael reached out for the frog. “His name is Squiggles.”

“He’s kind of wet.”

“Frogs do that.” Small warm hands closed over hers.

Emily swallowed hard. “Are you getting down now?”

“Um. I can’t. Can you get me down?”

“Sure.” The word scraped her throat. She was no longer under lifting restrictions, but her emotions weren’t knitting in sync with her bones. She took the kind of breath that empowered weight lifters. Michael and Squiggles slid into her waiting arms.

“Do you have a box or a jar or something we can put holes in?” Large brown eyes stared up at her.

“I think I have just the thing. A can I found in the cellar. Actually, there’s already a frog in it.”