Twilight (5 page)

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I won’t.”

She slid the bottle away. “I have to go.”

“Because I tread on sacred ground?”

“Because it’s late for the children. They’re not used to Mother yet.” She pushed back her chair and stood, hooked her purse over her shoulder, then paused. “Thank you for dinner and … for listening.”

“What are friends for?” He beat her to the door and pulled it open. With the slightest indication, he would kiss her.

She slipped past. “Well, thanks again.”

He watched through the window. Her head hardly bent as she passed through the wet halo of porch light to her car. Who would she be if one little thing had been different? Who would they all be?

Laurie snapped on the radio as she drove. Cal’s place had brought a poignant stab to her ribcage. The last time she’d been there he had changed her life. She flushed with the memory. It wasn’t so much the sight of it as the smell, the old house smell, wood and wool. It wasn’t Cal’s smell, yet it was, too, as though he fit the old place or it fit him.

He was so much the same—his smile easy, his eyes the blue of cobalt glaze. Out in the sun they lightened up, but inside … She turned up the volume. What was she doing? The last thing she needed was to revisit old ghosts. Before, it would have bothered her that Cal had things he wasn’t telling. Now she was almost glad. It put them on equal ground.

She drew a long breath and released the tension in her shoulders. She had accomplished what she intended, established the relationship so he knew where she stood. Nothing, nothing could come of it. Not physical, not emotional. A slow ache tightened her throat. Her head knew the inescapable truth, but watching him move about the kitchen adding a sprig of this, a pinch of that, his careless sprawl in the old, creaking chair, the paper towel napkins …

Laurie smiled, then covered her mouth with her hand. She knew better. This could get dangerous too fast … as it once had.
“Who you married and who you didn’t.”
Even now, after seven years and six of them married, her time with Cal haunted her. Her friend Darla said they’d formed a heart bond. No one had talked about that in sex ed. No one had mentioned tearing out your soul, leaving part of yourself irreparably behind.

That was her own fault, spending all that time with him, knowing him better than she knew herself. How could she put him away and go on with her life? She had tried to, needed to.

When she confided to Darla five years after she’d married Brian that she still hurt over Cal, Darla claimed the karma of past lives had driven them together and torn them apart. There was also something about the alignment of stars and planets, things that were vogue in Darla’s circle, but which Laurie didn’t believe. What did she believe? Anything?

She slowed, then accelerated again as the light changed. The heart bond—that part seemed true. Not because of stars or reincarnated destinies. But because he loved her in a way she needed to be loved. No measuring up; no strings attached. It was still there in his face, that unconditional acceptance.

The way Grams had loved her. Grams, the one person in her family who had accepted her as she was, who had no plans for her but happiness, who had taken her on her knee and told her about Jesus. Grams had a different Jesus than Daddy’s.

It was easy to believe in a loving God when she was with Grams. Somehow He came alive, and she felt cherished, just listening to stories about the God she couldn’t see or touch. She believed He could see her, or at least she wanted to. But as soon as she went home her faith evaporated. God became the taskmaster she could never please. God looked like Daddy.

Laurie stopped in front of her mother’s house and climbed out. Looking up to the window that had been hers, she shrank inside. She hated the house. She had hated it from the day they moved in three days before her sixteenth birthday. No, she hadn’t had a party. She’d spent her birthday touring the high school with the other new kids.

She had picked up her schedule and met Cal, who was performing as student guide. Yes, performing. He was as amused by his selection as the others were shocked. Cal Morrison, class cut-up turned responsible citizen? Yet his antics were never malicious, and she suspected a bright, creative mind. He was always two steps ahead, quick with a comeback, clever and witty. From the start she wanted to climb inside his brain and learn how he did that.

Not that it would have done her any good. If she’d ever spoken back to Daddy with anything like Cal’s remarks … She shuddered, rubbed away the mist that clung to her lashes, and stared up at the window of her bedroom, the ruffled curtains crisp to this day. Try as she would, she could not conjure the kind of happy family memories that ought to be connected with the tall, brick colonial, her staunchly Christian home. Firm and steadfast, stay the course, trample any seed of variance before it sprouts. Imagination? Bah! Creativity? Humbug. The law, the Word, and Daddy.

Maybe if she’d had siblings, a sister to lie on the floor with, share secrets, commiserate. But no, she wouldn’t have wished on anyone the scrutiny, the never measuring up, the aching to be accepted. They lucked out, the ones buried in the Jefferson City cemetery.

What a morbid thought. Laurie walked up to the porch and went in, allowing herself the little rudeness of not ringing. Her mother returned the favor. Maybe they both needed to rebel a little. She stopped at the kitchen door and watched her mother cover Maddie’s hand with hers and press the cutter into the cookie dough.

She was trying. Laurie had to hand it to her. With Maddie and Luke, Mother was trying. Maybe she had with her as well. Maybe when she was little, and she just didn’t remember. Maybe even later, and she hadn’t recognized it.

Her mother looked up. “Back so early?”

Laur ie caught the tone and knew exactly what Mother was thinking.
No, Mother, we didn’t stoop to your suspicions
. Nor would she. Hadn’t she just established that, done the responsible thing? Wouldn’t Mother ever give her credit for some sense?

“Looks like fun.” She smiled at Maddie’s floured cheeks.

Luke held up an oddly shaped cookie. “I made the bears.”

“Yum.”

“Want one?”

“If I can gobble its head first.”

He held it out to her, and she bit the head off. “As good as it looks.” Of course her mother had made the dough. That was a given. Marjor ie Sutton never risked her ingredients on inexper ienced hands.

Laurie’s mood soured. “Maddie needs to get to bed, Mother.”

“Yes, I know. But I had no idea how long you’d be with … Anyway, we’re finishing the last batch now.” She pressed the cutter herself over the remaining dough. “Wash her up at the sink, if you like.”

Laurie worked the dough and sugar off Maddie’s tiny fingers under the water. “Having fun, punkin?”

“We watched
Cats and Dogs
.” Maddie planted a sugary kiss on her cheek, then squeezed her neck with wet hands. How affectionate her children were. What did it take to drive that out of a child? Or had she, herself, been bor n deficient somehow? Had she ever squeezed her mother’s neck like that, or God forbid, her father’s?

She hooked Maddie on her hip and watched her mother slide the spotless cookie sheet into the spotless oven. Luke circled her legs in his arms. Her children were the only good things to come of the mess she had made of her life. What would she ever do without them?

3

T
HE BEST PART OF THE ART OF LIVING

IS TO KNOW HOW TO GROW OLD GRACEFULLY.

Eric Hoffer

H
ANDS JAMMED INTO THE POCKETS of his worn jeans, Cal stood outside the white br ick walls of the Montrose Behavioral Health Center. In there you didn’t wonder if you were cracking up; you knew it. And the best part was that everyone else was as cracked as you. He shook his head, thinking how belligerent he’d been. But he was past that now.

So why had he stopped there today? He drove by the center every day on his way to work, but this was the first time he’d stopped in the three months he had been out. Closure? Or had seeing Laurie made things harder to accept? Her expectations, her impressions were based on the man she had known, the man he’d been. What would she think now? He sighed.

A hand landed like a sledgehammer on his shoulder, and he turned to meet the smile, an awesome spread of lips, gums, and teeth as white as chalk. Cal couldn’t miss the grin, blaring at eye level above the rock-like chin and giant Sequoia neck.

“Hey, man! How you been?”

Cal’s own mouth spread. Pure Pavlov. When Reggie Douglas smiled, Cal smiled. At least he didn’t salivate.

Dressed in his thin white coat, Reggie cocked his head and eyed Cal as he had each morning when he had come through the door of Cal’s room. Cal half expected him to ask if he was regular and taking his vitamins.

“You’re lookin’ good. Whatcha been up to?” Reggie released his shoulder after a peremptory squeeze that made Cal glad this man was a friend.

“Oh, you know, clowning around.”

“Yeah. My niece said you did her school.”

Cal shrugged. “How’re things?”

“Crazy. You know how it is. Good thing I got the Big Man upstairs in control.” He hoisted his thick finger toward the sky.

“Yeah, good thing, Reg.”

“Hey, Jack Smith got clean. Finally decided it was not worth the trouble to keep sneakin’ stuff in.”

Cal pictured Jack’s haggard face.
“Come on, Cal. You got connections, don’t you? Get me somethin’ …”

Cal swallowed. “I’m glad to hear it.” He didn’t have the sort of connections Jack had wanted—or that sort of addiction. Cal’s had been strictly legal poison. Only stuff he had free access to as both a paramedic and consenting adult. Amazing what you could forget with booze and prescription drugs—until they grew horns and fangs and you were fighting for your life. He’d won the fight—so far.

Reggie squeezed his shoulder. “I gotta get inside. You coming?”

“Not this time.” Cal jammed his hands into his pockets. “I think I’ll stay sane for a while.”

Reggie raised the shiny ridge of his sparse eyebrows. “Just get it close, man. Successive approximation. One little step in the right direction at a time.”

Cal nodded. “Give Rita a hug for me.” Rita James, M.D., Doctor of Psychiatry and part-time shoulder. She meant more to the department than any other resource, and personally far more to Cal than that. Like Reggie, she was a friend.

“You got it.” Reggie zeroed in on the first set of doors. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Cal heard the slap of Reggie’s pink palms on the door as his bulky shoulders, double roll of neck skin, and black, nubby head disappeared inside. He climbed back into his jeep and headed for the elderly care facility nearby.

Forty-two pairs of rheumy eyes fixed on him as Cal pointed to the charts, telling the residents of Oaklane Manor the best way to enter and exit a tub to prevent a fall. These occupants still managed on their own, unlike their counterparts in the nursing section of the facility, and fire safety wasn’t the only concern he dealt with. When Billy rode his bike through a window, when Junior choked on a grape, when Grandma broke her hip, when a diner passed out, who got called?

Not that he minded. Helping folks was the heart and soul of what he did. That was the job. Or it had been. No, it still was. Prevention was as crucial as intervention. More so, because there was little you could do once a situation went bad.

Although the makeup and wig were back at the station, Cal threw in a joke. “There were three spinster sisters. The first decides to take a bath and goes up to the tub. With one leg over the side, she says, ‘Now was I getting in or getting out?’ When she doesn’t come back, the second sister goes to check. She heads up the stairs and when she gets halfway, she stops. ‘Was I going up or going down?’ The third sister shakes her head exasperated, saying, ‘Thank goodness, I’m not like them. Knock on wood.’ ” He rapped his knuckles on the podium. “ ‘Now was that the front door or the back?’ ”

Chortles and snorts followed, and one purple draped woman removed her glasses and wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. Maud would be squeezing his hands when he finished, saying what a nice young man he was to come speak to them.

Flipping the chart, he started in on the fire prevention rules. “Make yourself a checklist. Turn off the burner, the iron, the …” His voice droned. Ed Mills in the white vinyl armchair snored long and low, then flubbered his lips with the expelled breath. His lips sank in between his gums, then flubbered out again. No one jostled him awake. Cal asked if they were all familiar with the emergency exits of the general facility as well as an escape route from their own private units. Heads bobbed.

No one looked confused, but he knew the disorientation they would face in a real emergency when smoke and panic concealed and distorted everything familiar. “Have an escape plan …” Could their aging limbs pull them along at ground level, where the air was cleaner? Could they move swiftly enough to escape the accumulating carbon monoxide, before even lungfuls of fresh air weren’t enough to staunch the poison already in their systems? What of misplaced eyeglasses needed to locate the glow of exit signs, arthritic knees, and—

Ed snorted and shifted his position before resuming his snooze.

Cal moved his hands like a symphony conductor until Ed’s snores settled into their regular pattern. His neighbors laughed, giving Cal good-natured smiles. Cal’s chest tightened. Maybe a few of the sparky ones would see to their neighbors and friends. The rest was up to the men at the station and those called from their homes, even from their beds, to put their skills to the test. Cal tightened his grip on the pointer. Skills fail. Men fail. He closed the charts. “So remember now, think safety. We can’t afford to lose the wisdom in this room.”

Maud dabbed her eyes again, then honked her nose into a handkerchief. She was always touched that he cared enough to come. He never told her it was his job. And maybe it was more than that that brought him so regularly. He loved old people with their amused acceptance of their limitations, even the crotchety ones who complained about every ache. The more marginalized, the more he cared. Someone had to.