by Karen White
“Mother!” Caroline dropped back into the lawn chair and put her hand over her eyes.
Margaret nodded in her daughter’s direction. “I’m just trying to explain to our new neighbor, Mr. Reed, how delicate your heart is and how everyone, including our neighbors, needs to work together to keep stress out of your life.”
Caroline shook her head, her hands now pressing against either side of her face like a vise. “Living with you and next door to him will probably kill me within days without intervention. A job as an air-traffic controller would be less stressful.” She jerked to a stand and faced Margaret, her face a mottled red. “Mom, I know that you’re going to say that you’re doing this because you love me, and deep, deep down inside me somewhere I might even believe that’s true. But if you open your mouth to say one word to me right now, I can’t be responsible for what I might do. So I’m going inside to lie down and practice breathing and maybe tie my hands behind my back so I won’t hurt myself or anyone else. Do not follow me. Please.”
She turned her back on them without another word and stalked toward the house. For the second time in as many days, Drew had the pleasure of watching her retreating backside and had the thought that somebody’s boot could do a lot of good planted on her rear end.
When Margaret looked up at him again he expected to see anger or at least embarrassment. He saw neither. Instead it looked like she was about to cry.
“Are you all right?”
She clenched her lips together and nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’m used to it.” She sent him a weak smile. “She’s not really like that, you know. She’s just . . . hurt. And she’s been hurting for a very long time. I just don’t know how to make it better. I thought that . . .” Margaret looked back at him, as if remembering she wasn’t alone. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to burden you with all our family’s woes. I just didn’t want you to think I’d raised a monster.”
He smiled back at her. “I wouldn’t think that at all, Mrs. Collier. Besides, Rainy seems to have a particular fondness for your daughter, which says a lot.” Although in this particular instance, he might doubt his mother-in-law’s judgment.
Margaret clutched his arm. “Yes, well. I guess I’d better go in. But I’m glad I saw you. I wanted to invite you and your daughter over for supper Saturday night.”
“That’s nice of you, Mrs. Collier, but I don’t think your daughter likes me very much. . . .”
“Drew—first, call me Margaret. Second, Caroline doesn’t seem to like anything very much unless it’s a column of numbers. Just give her time, and maybe you’ll see what I used to see when she was a young girl.” She patted his arm. “I’ll see you and Jewel at six then.”
It wasn’t a question and he realized he wasn’t expected to answer, either. She said good night and he watched her go back to the house, noticing how she stopped at the back door and squared her shoulders before entering in the exact same way her daughter had done minutes before.
CHAPTER 4
CAROLINE HEARD THE CALL OF THE LOON IN THE DARK OF HER dream and she stirred, picturing the long, sleek body of the water bird sluicing into the deepest parts of the lake, down to the invisible places that lived only in her memories and pushed insistently at the placid surface of her life.
Opening her eyes, she crossed to her window and stared out across the lake where Hart’s Peak sat shadowed under a full moon and heard the loon again, its call something between a cry and a laugh. She remembered the times she and Jude had slipped their canoe into the black water in search of the elusive bird, always disappointed but gratified, too, knowing that this was a secret adventure they shared while their parents slept: a quest to look for something they couldn’t see. Their loon—they called it that even though they were never sure if it was the same one—returned to the lake each summer, even though it wasn’t supposed to. Loons, Jude explained, summered in Canada and the northern states, not the mountains of North Carolina. But each summer the loon called, and she and Jude went out to find it.
Straining her eyes, Caroline tried to make out the profile of Ophelia, of the smooth stone forehead that remained unlined over the centuries as she stood sentinel over the lake that bore her name—never aging, never dreaming, never living; just being. Thinking of the mystical woman made her sad, and the restless feeling of the past weeks fell on her again. Silently she slipped on her fuzzy slippers and ancient terry cloth robe and moved through the house to the back porch and down to the dock.
The loon called again, and Caroline watched as its dark shape moved across the surface of the lake, hearing the flap-flap-flap of its feet against the water as it gained momentum to drag its ungainly body into the air. During Caroline’s awkward adolescent years, her mother had likened her to the loon: ungainly and clumsy on land, but sleek and powerful in the water. She hadn’t been all that upset, because even back then she had recognized the truth in it. Caroline’s swimming had been her refuge from being an awkward teenager, and she had the trophies to prove it. She didn’t know where those trophies were anymore. They had been forgotten and left behind somewhere in her haste to grow up and get beyond the horrible summer of her seventeenth year.
The loon dove under the surface, leaving the lake silent again. Caroline sat and pulled her knees into her chest, turning her head toward her neighbor’s house. She was surprised to see a light on in the small addition stuck onto the back of the house. It was probably that annoying man Drew Something-or-other. God. Just thinking his name made her skin crawl with irritation. She was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the humiliating toilet-paper incident, either. It was more to do with his being a bump on what she had thought would be an uncluttered road to recovery. She’d envisioned lying on the sofa or the dock for three months, keeping in touch with the office through her BlackBerry, and not having to do anything except tolerate her mother and catch up with Rainy.
She thought of her BlackBerry at the bottom of the lake and swore under her breath just as the loon crashed through the surface and flew away, its late-night snack clutched in its beak. It made her miss the water again and the way it made her feel: strong, sleek. Beautiful.
She stood and stared at the black water, her body itching to feel the cold wetness, her hands cupping on their own as if remembering moving water with deft strokes. I’ve been too long from the water.
Turning her back, she faced her mother’s house again just in time to see the light go off in her neighbor’s house. Probably up late plotting the transformation of Rainy’s shop into a burger franchise. She felt her heart pound. Until now she’d forgotten about the FOR SALE sign in the shop’s window. She’d go see Rainy tomorrow and demand to know what that was all about. No way could she be allowed to sell it to that . . . tourist. Soon there would be nothing left to remember Jude’s presence. Only old memories held by people who were getting older every day.
She felt weepy again. Damn! What is wrong with me? Plopping herself into the chaise longue on the back patio, she sucked in the night air one large lungful at a time. She lay back and closed her eyes, just to rest for a moment before going back to bed. But there was something about the night air, something about the smell of the lake that brought Jude back to her. She could almost feel him beside her in the canoe, paddling silently. Absently she moved her fingers over the old chest scar and fell asleep with her hand pressed against her heart, dreaming of slipping farther and farther out onto the dark lake with only the call of the loon to guide her.
Caroline awoke to the smell of coffee, the loon’s cry still fresh in her mind. She sat up, disoriented for a moment, with a terrible stiffness in her neck where it had been pressed into an unnatural position against the back of the chaise. Her mother stood before her, completely dressed in a crisply ironed linen pantsuit and a freshly made-up face. She held a wooden breakfast tray with a plate of wheat toast, turkey bacon, and scrambled faux eggs, and a steaming cup of coffee. Tucked neatly under the china plate lay a snowy-white linen napkin. Caroline could be on her de
athbed and her mother would still be trying to make her point about napkins. The woman never gave up.
Caroline tried to sit up straighter and felt every bone in her body protest as she moved them out of cramped positions and allowed her mother to place the breakfast tray on her lap.
“Honey, if your bed isn’t comfortable, I’ll give you mine. I don’t know how good the night air is on your health.”
Caroline pasted what she hoped was a pleasant smile on her face. “Fresh air’s good for me.” She picked up the mug and took a sip of coffee. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome. It’s all low-fat and low-calorie. I have some low-sugar jam for your toast if you’d like some.”
Caroline looked down at the butterless toast and tried to be thankful. “No, thanks. This is fine.”
Her mother wiped off the seat of a green lawn chair with the palm of her hand, then sat on the edge, facing Caroline. “What would you like to do today?”
Caught by surprise, Caroline stammered, “I, uh, I thought I’d go see Rainy. But you don’t need to come with me. I’m sure you’ve got your own plans.”
“Nonsense. I need to go see Rainy anyway. She just got back from Atlanta from her last round with chemo and I should go see how she’s doing.”
Caroline’s mouth went dry around a forkful of eggs. “What? What chemo?”
Margaret frowned, deep furrows creasing her forehead, reminding Caroline again of how quickly she seemed to be aging. Or maybe this was the first time in a long while she had really looked at her mother.
“Oh, I thought Rainy would have told you by now.” She straightened her back. “She’s got ovarian cancer, but she’s responding real well to treatment. Not that a stubborn old coot like Rainy would ever allow cancer to get the better of her. I always knew it didn’t stand a chance.”
“Mom! How can you talk like that? She’s your best friend and she’s got cancer.” Completely losing her appetite, Caroline moved the breakfast tray off her lap and sat up. “I’ve got to go see her. I can’t believe nobody told me.” Angry now, she turned on her mother. “How could you not tell me?”
Margaret stood and stared her daughter in the eye. “It’s hard to tell you things when the only communication I have with you is by e-mail or by leaving you a message on your voice mail.” She paused. “Then you had your stress attack and she and I decided you didn’t need anything else to upset you.”
A small ball of guilt found its way into Caroline’s throat. Her contact with her mother for years had been strictly superficial, easily compartmentalized into snippets of information that could be imparted without being discussed. She always thought she liked it that way. Caroline took a deep breath. “I need to see her.”
A loud buzzing sounded from the laundry room. Margaret turned and said, “I’m going to go fold towels. Let me know when you’re ready to go and I’ll drive you.”
Resigned, Caroline watched her mother march off to the laundry room as if she were walking on a fashion runway; then she carried the breakfast tray back to the kitchen, shuffling in her fuzzy slippers.
She had almost made it to her room to get dressed when the doorbell rang. She looked toward the laundry room to see if her mom had heard over the noise of the washing machine. When Margaret didn’t appear, Caroline moved toward the front door, then yanked it open.
Drew What’s-his-name stood on the covered front porch, a large dark wood cabinet with glass doors sitting on the floor next to him. He didn’t even have the manners to smile and look her in the eye and pretend she looked normal. Instead his eyes roamed over her bulky robe, fluffy slippers, and bare pale legs, then up to the chair creases on her face before resting on her hair. “Rough night?”
She stared at him for a long moment, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt. “Are you lost? I can draw you a map to show you the way home, if you like. No charge.”
He was still staring at her hair. “How do you get it to stay up like that?”
She started to close the door on him, but he stuck his hand out to stop it from shutting completely. “Is your mother in? She’s expecting me.”
Margaret appeared from the laundry room, a look of horror crossing her face as she took in Caroline’s appearance and the man at the door. While greeting Drew, she reached into the hall table drawer, pulled out a tube of lipstick, and handed it to Caroline. Caroline stared at it, thinking that putting lipstick on her face at this point would be a bit like hanging ornaments on a dead tree. She slipped the tube into the pocket of her robe and crossed her arms, prepared for battle. Except no one was paying any attention to her.
Drew lifted up the piece of furniture in two parts and brought them in from the porch at her mother’s direction, declining her offer of help and making two trips. The furniture came to rest against the blank wall below Jude’s drawing and next to the closed-up piano. Curious, Caroline followed them into the great room.
Both Drew and Margaret were looking at her with expectant expressions. Her mother spoke first. “Well, what do you think?”
Curious, Caroline stepped forward, looking closely at the piece of furniture for the first time. It had short, squat legs that had been carved to resemble crescent moons. The top and sides were made of a dark-colored wood, with an inlaid checkerboard pattern marching around the perimeter. But the pediment intrigued her the most. Across the top were what appeared to be ocean waves in different sizes, like the surf rolling forcefully to shore. It was nothing a machine could ever have made. She knelt before it, awed, and slid her hands across the smooth wood. It made something inside of her spin, as if the connection between artist and viewer had been firmly made. She used to get the same feeling when listening to Jude play the piano. “It’s beautiful.”
And then she wished she hadn’t uttered a word, because it sounded so inadequate. She’d worked in the furniture manufacturing business her entire career and knew what to look for in a quality piece of furniture. This was simply art.
“It’s exquisite,” she said as she stood.
“Thank you.” Drew bent down and retrieved a shelf that he’d brought in from the porch and placed it inside.
Caroline looked at him in confusion. “Where did you buy it?”
“I didn’t.” He picked up another shelf and put it in place.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, so where did you steal it?”
Her mother laid a hand on her arm. “Caroline, don’t be silly. He made it—that’s what he does. He makes furniture. It’s for all your swimming trophies.”
Caroline wasn’t sure which bit of news stunned her more—the fact that Drew What’s-his-name had the carpentry skills of a master craftsman or that her mother even remembered that she had won any swimming trophies.
Margaret continued. “I’ve been keeping your trophies all these years, hoping to find someplace wonderful to put them. I thought they’d look great here, in this house, since this is where you learned to swim. When Drew showed me some of the pieces he was working on, I knew immediately that he’d be the one who could make something special.” She smiled broadly. “I’m glad you agree.”
Caroline couldn’t say anything, so she reached out and smoothed her hand over the top of the cabinet again, smelling fresh-cut wood and stain. Awe, surprise, and anger seemed to swirl around in her head, making her heart beat faster. She concentrated on taking deep breaths while she stared at the waves racing across the top of the cabinet. I’ve missed the water, she thought again, remembering the loon and the way her body had ached as she’d looked out onto the lake.
Drew was no longer staring at her hair and was now looking into her eyes. He had nice eyes, dark blue and clear with few creases around them, as if he didn’t spend a lot of time laughing. “My daughter, Jewel, wants to try out for the swim team—but I’m making her sit out this year and work on her confidence. She’s a good swimmer, but she needs to build some strength and stamina. I think it would be too dangerous just to put her in the water before she’s ready
. Maybe you can coach her and give her some pointers.”
She dropped her hand. “I don’t swim anymore. I haven’t for a long time, so I don’t think I’d be able to help.” She drew her robe closer around her body and pulled her lips away from her teeth to resemble a smile. “I need to go get dressed now.” She hurried from the room, eager to get away before anybody could see her cry.
May 16, 1985
Jude is moving to Atlanta. He says his dad’s been offered a job at a big Atlanta hospital and that they’ll still keep their house for vacations and weekends. But it won’t be the same. I have bad headaches now when I see Jude saying good-bye to me and I’m thinking that I’m seeing him move away. These headaches are so bad I can taste them, and they taste like black asphalt after a summer rainstorm. It’s burned and smoky and I wonder if it’s the dream I’m smelling or something real that hasn’t happened yet. That happens to me sometimes, and it’s scary. Mama knows something’s up with that because she’s looking at me weird. She doesn’t even have to ask if my head hurts—she just knows and makes me one of her hot drinks. But the dreams always stay after the headache goes away. It’s like when a camera flash goes off but you still see the light for a long time. I think life’s like that: Each moment is so quick, but you remember them forever.
Jewel heard the front door shut and immediately slammed the diary closed, then stuck it under her mattress.
Her father called from downstairs, “Jewel?”
She stayed on her bed where she’d been reading and shouted, “I’m here!”
Her father paused for a moment and then she heard his footsteps on the stairs. He hated shouting—he said it reminded him too much of growing up with Grandpa—and preferred to speak softly face-to-face. Which was fine with her as long as it didn’t require her to move from her comfortable perch.
