Hummingbird Lane

by Brown, Carolyn

  “My father is dead,” Sophie assured her. “He was in the army when he and Mama met at a party. They had a wild two weeks, and he went back overseas, where he died without ever even knowing she was pregnant. Mama had no idea that my father was married when she had the fling with him. And she didn’t start working for Victoria until I was four years old,” Sophie said.

  “I wish Rebel had been my mother,” Emma said. “I don’t know why Mother has to be so controlling, and I’m so sorry I can’t repay you for all those things you ordered for me.”

  “Shake it off,” Sophie said. “You don’t need money right now. You just need to get stronger and be that girl who fought to get to stay in public school with me or for me to get to be tutored with you. Go get dressed and take that walk you talked about. This is a great place to think. Take my phone with you and write down the landline number in case you need me.”

  Emma wanted to shake her head to clear all those memories she had locked away and suddenly remember why she had cut up that painting. For the first time, she wanted—no, she needed—to face her fears, and yet all she had were flashes that popped into her head at the strangest times. Like that memory of leaning over the bed with satin sheets and throwing up on a white rug. Victoria loved satin sheets and had them on most beds, but there had never been a white rug in the Merrill mansion, so where did that vision come from?

  It’s only been a day. It’s been more than a decade since you buried whatever happened, so don’t expect for it all to come flooding back in twenty-four hours, the voice in her head said.

  “If I was as strong as Sophie, I wouldn’t have repressed memories,” she whispered as she put on the jeans she’d worn the day before and then opened Sophie’s closet door and chose a T-shirt with paint stains on it. She found an old pair of Sophie’s cowboy boots that looked like they’d fit and slipped her feet into them. When she made it to the living room, Sophie tossed a wide-brimmed hat toward her. “You’ll need this to keep the sun from burning your face. You’re white as the driven snow right now.”

  “Thanks.” Emma caught it midair. “I haven’t been out by myself since the day I went to the park. Which way do I go?”

  Sophie laced her fingers in Emma’s and led her out to the porch. She slipped her cell phone in one of Emma’s back pockets along with a piece of paper with the house phone number on it and stuffed a bottle of water into the other one. “There’s no wrong way to go. Enjoy the walk. If you get lost, I’ll send Josh on his four-wheeler to rescue you. If you’re not back by dinner this evening, I’ll send out the National Guard.”

  Emma giggled. “Wish me luck.” She gave Sophie a brief nod and took the first step off the porch. That’s where her bravado ended. Her boots filled up with concrete, and she panicked. Her heart pounded so hard that it sounded like thunder in her ears.

  You girls are going to be famous artists someday. You are both strong. I can see that from the way you use your imagination when you color. Rebel’s voice came to mind. She couldn’t disappoint Rebel, so she took a step and then another one, repeating to herself that she was a strong woman. In half an hour she allowed herself to look over her shoulder and was surprised to see that the trailer looked like a toy out there in the distance.

  All kinds of cacti surrounded her, some with beautiful purple blooms, others with yellow and hot-pink blossoms. At home, the gardener kept the grass so thick that it was like walking on velvet, but here, sparse green stuff that resembled grass grew in clumps, interspersed with wildflowers. Maybe she shouldn’t compare the two places, but she couldn’t help it. There, she was stifled and agitated most of the time. Here, there was stark beauty and a modicum of peace.

  She caught a movement from the corner of her eye and spun around in an instant adrenaline rush. She was about to tear off back to the trailer when she saw the little rabbit hopping toward a thicket of trees. No one was following her. She didn’t have anything to worry about except getting a sunburn.

  “I’m strong,” she reminded herself.

  Funny how just twenty-four hours at Hummingbird Lane had made her remember things that made no sense and also let go of a few fears. Why here, and why now?

  She pulled the water bottle from her pocket and took a long drink and then plodded out toward the mountains. She’d gone a few hundred feet when a slight breeze out of the south kicked up and brought the haunting sound of music with it. She removed the hat and cocked her head to track where the noise came from.

  She tucked her hair behind her ear and started walking to the west. As she drew nearer, she recognized the tune as “Red River Valley.” One of the boys at her college used to sit on the lawn and play the harmonica, and he often played that song. She kept walking toward it until she saw Josh sitting on the ground with a sketch pad in front of him and a harmonica at his mouth.

  Spots of brilliant color in the cactus blooms dotted the landscape all around him. Purple, red, yellow, and shades of pink looked like splashes of paint on a blank canvas. She studied the yellow bloom on a cow’s tongue cactus closest to her and thought about how it would look on a small canvas. “I can’t do that—not yet. I’m not ready,” she muttered.

  The sound of the music Josh made with that simple instrument sank down deep into her soul. Memories of being somewhat free that semester in college flooded over her, and right then, standing near a thicket of scrub oak trees with cacti all around her, she felt stronger than she had in years.

  “I’m beginning to think that Mother really was trying to make me believe I couldn’t survive on my own,” she whispered. “I bet it was so that she could sell the company instead of passing it down to me like Grandmother said she was to do.”

  She stood as still as possible and listened to him play. Out there in the raw earth, where everything struggled for a place, Josh’s music was the most beautiful she’d ever heard. He finally put the instrument back in his pocket, picked up his sketch pad, and began to draw. No matter how hard she squinted, she couldn’t see what he was working on. She took a step forward, but that was as far as her newly found strength would allow her to go. Finally, she turned around and started back toward the tiny dots that were the trailers in the far distance.

  When that antsy feeling that someone was close by came over Josh, he put his harmonica away and picked up his sketch pad. A coyote was probably hiding in the copse of young scrub oak trees about fifty yards behind him and trying to decide whether to have Josh for a midmorning snack since he couldn’t find a rabbit. Every hair on Josh’s neck stood up until he glanced up at the rearview mirror of his four-wheeler, which was parked close to him, and saw that it was a dark-haired woman. What would some stranger be doing out here on his land? He’d told at least a dozen developers that he wasn’t interested in selling even one acre of what he owned. Dealing with those people made him nervous, but he could and would say no again.

  He squinted until his eyes were nothing but slits before he finally figured out that it was Sophie’s friend Emma. From what Sophie had said, she was an introvert like he was, but he didn’t know much more than that. His mother, a psychologist, and his father, a physician, had had test after neuropsych test run on him from the time he was four years old. The final prognosis was that he was simply one of those smart people who did not adapt to society. His only niche in life seemed to be the pictures that he loved to draw.

  That day he was working on a picture of a hawk coming in for a landing. Dark clouds hovered behind the bird with its widespread wings, but there in the pupils of his eyes were the reflections of a sunrise.

  Do your homework. Drawing pictures is never going to get you anywhere. His father’s big, booming voice was so loud that he dropped his pen in the dirt and covered his ears.

  He was supposed to be their wonder child, but what they got was a kid who didn’t talk until he was four years old, who hated school and wound up liking to spend time with his grandfather and his grandfather’s old buddy Harry more than anything other than drawing pictures.

/>   “Who would have thought that one day my grandfather’s best friend would leave me a fortune? His will said that my dad didn’t need his money since he and my mom were making their own millions. Dad was furious, but he couldn’t do anything about it.” Josh talked to himself as he picked up his pen and gathered up his supplies to push all the internal voices away. “Now I don’t have to listen to my father yell at me.” He got on the four-wheeler and started back to his trailer to make himself a sandwich for lunch. When he got closer, he could see Emma going up the stairs to the back porch of Sophie’s trailer.

  Sophie waved at Emma and then went inside to get two longneck bottles of beer. By the time she got back, Emma was sitting on the porch. She set one beer down on the wide porch rail next to Emma and took a long drink from the bottle in her hands.

  “How was your walk?” Sophie asked.

  “Amazing,” Emma answered. “Did you ever watch Big Bang Theory?”

  “Did you? I thought that Victoria . . .” Sophie paused to regroup.

  “Sometimes when she was gone, Daddy and I would watch it together in his study. That was one room she didn’t have control over,” Emma said. “Have you seen it?”

  “I have all twelve seasons of it on discs,” Sophie said. “I brought those and Castle with me. We don’t get many television stations out here. Why are you asking?”

  “Leonard Hofstadter, a character in that show, reminds me of Josh.” Emma slumped down in the chair and picked up the beer, turning it to look at the label. “I don’t drink.”

  “Because you don’t like it or because Victoria said you couldn’t?” Sophie asked. “And why does Josh remind you of Leonard?”

  “He’s not tall and he’s a little backward, like me. And he wears those black-rimmed glasses and has a square face,” Emma answered. “I don’t know why I don’t drink. Mother insisted that I have a glass of champagne when we had guests one evening. The first sip put me into a panic attack, but maybe it was just something in the champagne that sets me off. Do you think it has something to do with the nightmares?” She stared hard at the bottle in her hand for a moment, then took a sip. “This is pretty good. It doesn’t feel like it’s going to make my chest go into spasms.”

  Spasms? Sophie wanted to ask a million questions, but patience was the key here. If Emma was ever going to truly get well, she needed space to figure out things on her own.

  “Tell me more about your walk. Did you see anything to paint?” Sophie asked.

  “Too many things to count, and it was wonderful to take a walk by myself,” Emma answered. “I have to admit that a simple little bunny almost put me in flight mode, though. I thought for sure Mother had sent either Jeffrey or some medical people to drag me back to Dallas. Everything is different here than back there. I’ve always felt so cooped up there, like I’m being smothered or drowning in deep water. Here I feel free.”

  “I’m with you, sister.” Sophie sat down in the other chair. “When I come here, it’s like I’m coming home.”

  “I saw Josh and heard him playing a harmonica. The music was beautiful. I wanted to see what he was drawing, but I didn’t want to disturb him,” Emma said.

  “Do you like this feeling of freedom? Is it going to help you figure out what happened to make you have these regressed memories?” Sophie asked.

  “Repressed, not regressed,” Emma said, “although I suppose they’re both right. About these snowbirds, as you called them. Are Filly and Arty snowbirds? Do they ever leave?”

  “No, they’re the permanent residents,” Sophie answered. “There’s three retired couples from up in one of the northern states who come down here for the winter months. They usually arrive in late October and stay through March.”

  “Does Josh own all six trailers? If you’ve already told me this, I’m sorry.” Emma took another sip of her beer.

  “Yes, he does,” Sophie replied. “His grandfather had a close friend who died a few years ago and left Josh a huge fortune. His parents weren’t happy about Harry giving Josh a big inheritance, but Josh was a grown man and Harry had had no kids, so there was nothing they could do about it. He used part of the money to buy this place. I don’t know a lot about his background, other than he’s super shy and a terrific artist. You’re right about him looking like Leonard and being kind of like that kid. He’s got a kind heart and a sweet nature like the character in the show.” She stood up and started into the house. “I’m going to make a plate of nachos for lunch. Want me to make enough for two?”

  “Yes, what can I do to help?” Emma asked.

  “It’s a one-person job, so just sit here and enjoy the view.” Sophie went inside but left the sliding glass door open so she could talk to Emma without yelling.

  “Sophie, last night I dreamed about that angel picture again. I was wearing scrubs, gray ones, and I never wore that color in any of the centers that Mother put me in, not even once,” Emma said.

  “Did you figure out why you were so angry? Or if you ever even painted a picture like that?” Sophie raised her voice above the noise of opening a bag of tortilla chips.

  “Not why I was so angry at the world, or even one person. Maybe it was Mother.” She shrugged. “I just can’t remember anything other than hurting . . .”

  “Physical pain or mental?” Sophie asked.

  Emma frowned as if she was trying to remember, and then she put a hand on her thigh and one on a breast. “It was real pain, not in my head. I felt like my chest was bruised, and my legs hurt so bad.”

  “Did Victoria finally snap and hit you?” Sophie asked.

  “No.” The frown got even deeper. “She rules with an iron hand, but it’s through manipulation, not violence. I was so mad when I first got back to my apartment, and I did really paint that picture. In our art class we were supposed to do something with kind of a sci-fi theme for our final grade. I don’t like that kind of thing, so I asked the professor if I could do a cloud like an angel. He must have agreed, because it was right there on the easel in my apartment. I had to have already showed it to him and gotten a grade on it, because that was the last thing I had to do before the semester ended,” Emma said. “When I slashed it all to pieces, I cut my hand on the knife. I couldn’t go back to the hospital or Mother would be angry with me. She was quick to send me away to one institution after another, but she never wanted to take me to the emergency room. If I got sick, she called a doctor to come to the house.”

  “You said back to the hospital,” Sophie said. “Why were you at the hospital originally?”

  Emma shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think I was injured, but I had a fear of going back, so I laid down on the floor and cried myself to sleep.”

  Sophie covered the bottom of a platter with chips, poured nacho cheese over them, and added sliced jalapeño peppers to the top. Then she popped the whole platter into the microwave to warm the cheese and thought about what Emma had told her. That had to have been the night that something terrible had happened. She carried the platter of nachos out to the porch and set it on the plastic table between the two chairs.

  Emma picked up a chip and popped it into her mouth. “Why would I be wearing scrubs in the dream, and why was I crying? I don’t think I hated the picture that much.”

  “Maybe you’re mixing two different times into one memory or dream.” Sophie sat down and reached for her first chip. A wave of worry washed over her. Was she about to hear something that meant Emma needed more help than Sophie could provide?

  “I don’t think so,” Emma said. “I’ve worn blue and pink scrubs in centers, but never gray. When a person is a depressive, gray isn’t a good color for them.”

  “You picked up a lot of stuff not to have gotten much help in those facilities,” Sophie said.

  “I guess I did. But until now”—Emma took a sip of her beer—“it’s hard to explain, but somewhere down deep inside, I know something had happened right before I slashed the picture, and it wasn’t right. The therapist who came to
the house after I ran away that day told me that I had something like post-traumatic stress disorder and wanted to know if I’d been hurt or abused. Other than Mother’s constant need to control me, I couldn’t think of anything but those nightmares and the need to get away from a big house. I think that I’m afraid to remember because I know it’s going to be painful. Not hurt like when I felt like my chest and legs hurt, but that mental stuff that might put me into a place I can’t ever get out of. Right now, it’s in a box and locked away.”

  “What changed your mind about wanting to get past all this and live an ordinary life?” Sophie didn’t care if Emma’s normal was more like Josh’s, as long as she was happy.

  “You did.” Emma flashed a smile that reached her eyes. “You cared enough to march into that room and rescue me.”

  “Why do you think you were so mad at the angels in the clouds?” Sophie hoped like hell she wasn’t pressing too much.

  “Because painting was my salvation and my escape from Mother, and something took it away from me,” Emma said between bites. “I don’t know why she let me out on a leash rather than hiring more tutors for my college education, but it was wonderful to be free. And I even got to see you a few times. I wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize that, so something must have happened that I couldn’t face.”

  “Were you dating someone?” Sophie asked. “Did y’all break up or something?”

  “I didn’t date in college,” she replied. “I was never sure how to act around guys. After I was discharged from the first place Mother put me in, she made me go out with a guy that was a son or a nephew”—she frowned again—“of one of her friends. I can’t remember the connection, but she said he was wealthy and rather nice-looking, and I needed to think about getting married and producing an heir for the business like she did.”

  “So, Victoria wanted you to have an ‘heir’ for the business, did she? That sounds so like her.” Sophie air quoted the word heir.