The Road She Left Behind

by Nolfi, Christine

  Nella giggled like a schoolgirl. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed Rosalind’s wit. “Tippi still drinks,” she said. “But she’s cut down with age. We won’t invite her.”

  “We won’t?”

  “These days, she breaks into song after a tablespoon of brandy.”

  “Leave her home.” Rosalind looked up hopefully. “You don’t mind staying the night? This afternoon will be an awful bore. I do need a long nap.”

  “I’ll read while you sleep. I miss your wonderful library.”

  “Those dusty old books miss you too.” Rosalind let the silence wind out. In her lap, her hands stilled. At length, she said, “I’m losing sensation in my legs. It started last week. I’ve been too bullheaded to tell Darcy.”

  “You should be in a wheelchair.” Nella placed another finger-kiss on Rosalind’s cheek. “We’ll go tomorrow, try out the latest models. Do you have a color preference?”

  “In wheelchairs? Aren’t they all a dreary gray?”

  “Not all. I saw one online in a snazzy steel-colored blue. It will go beautifully with your complexion.”

  At that, Rosalind laughed. “Nella, you are too much.”

  Chapter 25

  Darcy rose from foggy dreams. She dragged her eyes open. Shadows draped the hospital room. The corridor outside was quiet.

  Wincing, she became aware of the throbbing in her arms. Then her legs. Tiny fire bursts of pain from being knocked around the river. With a start, she noticed her mother seated beside the bed.

  She lifted her head from the pillow, groaned. “What are you doing here?” She flopped back down, a headache pounding at her temples.

  “Shhh! I’m not supposed to be here.” Her mother winked. She appeared positively giddy.

  Flabbergasted by the rare display, Darcy gave her the once-over. Rosalind’s silver hair was a puffy tangle, her eyes too bright. Which wasn’t the worst of it. Beneath a beige knit top, she wore plaid pajama bottoms.

  Flannel pajama bottoms.

  Following her gaze, Rosalind said, “It’s late. It didn’t seem worth the bother to get out of our comfy clothes.” She hesitated. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been through a meat grinder. I have an impressive number of bruises on my legs. But they’ll heal.” She switched topics. “Latrice drove you here?”

  “Nella did. We’re having a slumber party. We were chatting over glasses of wine when voilà! The idea popped into our heads: let’s sneak into the hospital.”

  “You . . . what?”

  “If you’re curious, Nella is hiding in the restroom. The one near the elevator.”

  Which meant her mother and Nella were back on speaking terms. More than that—they were in the midst of a slumber party in their pj’s, devising late-night escapades, including slipping into the hospital. For two mature women, it was an interesting state of affairs. When had they made up? And why? The questions bouncing through Darcy’s skull urged her to sit up.

  A bad idea. Her temples pounding, she guided her head back to the pillow. The mystery would have to wait.

  “How did you slip past the nursing station?” she asked instead. “Visiting hours end at nine o’clock. Michael tried to stay longer. They made him leave.”

  Her mother smiled. “Nella says Michael loves you.”

  “I love him too.”

  “The year you graduated from college . . . I didn’t know you were dating him. I’ve been such a fool.”

  A remarkable admission—one bright enough to alert Darcy to a change in the air. Her mother wasn’t visiting in the wee hours on a whim. She had a reason for coming.

  “How did you sneak into the hospital?”

  “At three in the morning?” Rosalind craned her neck, peered toward the corridor. “Most of the staff is asleep at the switch. We waited until the coast was clear and jumped in the elevator. When the man at the nursing station went to check on a patient, I made a dash for your room. Well, I didn’t exactly ‘dash.’ In my present condition, I moved with the grace of an old sand crab scuttling down a beach.”

  “Mother, you’re becoming absolutely delinquent.”

  “Marvelous, isn’t it? I spent most of today sleeping—I have energy to spare.” Rosalind shimmied her shoulders. “Are there any fruit stands nearby? I’d like to knock one over.”

  Darcy gaped. Was her mother cracking jokes?

  Yes, she was. And superbly, at that.

  “You do know the hospital will release me in the morning. We can probably spring Emerson by early afternoon. What do you need to discuss that can’t wait?”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You mean . . . ?” Darcy hesitated. It was foolhardy to get her hopes up.

  “Yes, dear. I’ll go on the list.”

  “You will?”

  “I’ll call Dr. Tanaka tomorrow. The news will make her day.”

  Darcy laughed. “Hell, it’s already made my day and it’s only three a.m.”

  “Don’t swear. It’s unbecoming.”

  “Right.”

  Her upbeat expression dimming, Rosalind dredged up her pricklier sensibilities. “Bear in mind, putting my name on a transplant list may lead exactly nowhere. They may not find a match in time. If they do find a heart, I may be too weak to survive the procedure. I’ve been such a stubborn fool. It will serve me right if they do find a heart but I don’t make it through surgery.”

  Gratitude tightened Darcy’s throat.

  Mother will go on the list. We might actually beat the disease.

  No. Not maybe. We will. She’ll come through this with flying colors.

  Darcy poked her hand out from beneath the blankets. “Stop worrying.” She clasped her mother’s hand. “You’ll get through surgery, no problem. I’m sure of it. I don’t have a smidgen of doubt.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. How can you guarantee I’ll survive?”

  The tears came too fast for Darcy to suppress. “You must survive,” she said, blinking them back. “I’m not ready to lose you.”

  Chapter 26

  Scanning the text message, Darcy wandered into the living room. After sending a reply, she looked up. She came to a contented standstill.

  One week after the ordeal in the forest, everyone in the Goodridge household was still in “nesting mode.” Although it was past eleven o’clock on a bright Sunday morning, no one—except Latrice, whipping up pancakes in the kitchen—seemed in any hurry to get dressed. On the couch, Samson clacked away on a laptop. Beside him, Emerson appeared bored with his Nintendo. Rosalind, camped out in her favorite Queen Anne chair behind the New York Times, looked comfy in a light-apricot nightgown and a beige robe.

  “Breakfast will be ready soon,” Darcy said to no one in particular. With triumph, she glanced at the napkin on the end table beside her mother’s chair. The three orange slices she’d deposited there were gone. “Mother, would you like another nibble?”

  “I’m not a cat, dear. Stop luring me with small bites.”

  “Well, it does get you to eat.” According to Dr. Tanaka, she couldn’t afford to lose weight. Darcy was determined to keep her fit and hale until they found a heart and scheduled the surgery.

  “I’m fine for now,” Rosalind assured her. “Is there yogurt in the fridge? I’m not sure my stomach will approve of pancakes.”

  “There is.” Dropping the subject, Darcy glanced hopefully at the couch. “Anyone feel like setting the dining room table?”

  Emerson tossed his Nintendo aside. “Go for it, Aunt Darcy. We don’t mind.”

  “Ha ha. Got any other wisecracks you’d like to share?”

  “Not really.”

  She began to retrace her steps. Then she halted. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Emerson rolling up his pajama bottoms to his knees. Wrinkling his nose, he studied the cuts and bruises on his shins. The wounds were healing well. Yet, despite his aversion to blood, he was constantly tempted to pick at the itchy scabs.

  Samson—his attention still trai
ned on the laptop—batted Emerson’s hand back.

  “Leave them alone.” Resuming his work, Samson peered at the screen. “Keep picking at them, and Darcy will put the bandages back on.”

  “I will,” she warned.

  “But my legs itch!”

  The New York Times rustled. “Emerson, last warning.” Rosalind balled up the napkin and took aim. The napkin popped her grandson on the head.

  “Hey!”

  Darcy noticed something else. “Samson, did you buy a laptop?” The one he was using didn’t look familiar.

  “This was Michael’s. It’s old, but still works. It’ll do for now.”

  On Wednesday, Samson had come to a decision. He’d enroll at Lakeland Community College. Three classes, three days a week. Michael planned to switch him to a flexible schedule, allowing him to choose when to work and when to study.

  “We should get you a new laptop before classes begin,” she decided. “Let me spring for one. My gift to the new college student.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Darcy. But I’m saving up for a new one.”

  Her mother rustled her newspaper with faint irritation. “Samson, how many times must I offer to buy you a laptop . . . and pay your tuition? College is an important step for a young adult. This isn’t charity. It’s an investment in the future—one I’m happy to make. The world needs ambitious young adults.”

  Emerson snorted. “Yeah, right. Samson’s big ambition is the girl he’s dating at the high school. Makayla told him she’s going to Lakeland next year.”

  Samson threw him a warning look. Then he rolled his eyes as Emerson returned his attention to his scabs, the temptation to scratch gleaming in his eyes.

  Darcy moved in. Steering her nephew’s hand back, she rolled down his pajamas.

  When she finished, he folded his arms. “Aunt Darcy, should I learn Mandarin?”

  A non sequitur of the first order. She laughed. “I don’t know, kiddo. Should you?”

  “I want to work in e-commerce. Do you think the Chinese would mass-produce the squirrel baffle we built? I could sell them online.”

  “Some advice: get a patent before talking to the Chinese.”

  “What’s a patent?”

  “Well, it’s a kind of protection. For inventors.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Samson’s fingers danced across the laptop’s keyboard. “I’ll show you a website that’ll explain,” he said. “Here you go. A patent gives you protection so no one can steal your invention. When I was in junior high, Big Brothers in Charleston got me signed up with a nice guy for about a year. He worked on the docks of Charleston Harbor, and he had an idea for a new kind of back brace for guys who do a lot of heavy lifting. I’m not sure if he ever got a patent, but I remember him showing this site to me.”

  “Why would someone in Beijing steal my stuff?”

  “To make money on your idea. Look here.” He swiveled the laptop toward Emerson. “This is the US Patent Office. Do you want me to send you the link? If you get a patent and someone tries to steal your stuff, you can sue them. At least I think you can. I’m not sure how you take someone to court if he lives in another country. Is there a World Court for things like that?”

  The newspaper fluttered to Rosalind’s lap. “We have international laws to govern affairs between countries,” she told him.

  “Do they work?”

  “Sometimes. Not always. Countries find devious ways to steal intellectual property—patents, copyrights, and the like. It’s a difficult issue.”

  “Then someone ought to make better laws.” Samson rubbed his lips together, working it out. “How do you pass a law in your country but make someone in another country obey it?”

  The question brought a dreamy sigh from Rosalind. “We have a lawyer in our midst,” she murmured.

  Her momentary bliss allowed Darcy to slide the newspaper from her lap. “Slow down, Mother.” She found the section she wanted and tossed the newspaper back. “Let Samson get his feet wet at college before you steer him toward a career.”

  A knock sounded at the door. In a habit recently established, Michael let himself in. He came into the living room with a platter in his hands that trailed a delectable scent. Homemade pizzelles. The heavenly, wafer-thin cookies were Nella’s specialty.

  “Your timing is lousy,” Darcy joked, although she certainly hadn’t objected when he’d sent the text. “Maybe I’ll have just one before we sit down to breakfast. Can you join us?”

  “For Latrice’s pancakes? Sure.”

  They exchanged a glance of longing—one Darcy quickly cut off. She recalled the promise she’d made to Emerson at the craft fair. If she went fishing for a boyfriend, she wouldn’t cast her line toward Michael. A promise already broken, obviously. Michael had reluctantly agreed to allow her to decide when they’d tell Emerson the truth.

  “Pizzelles!” Approaching, he surveyed the platter. “Grandmother, how many may I have before breakfast?”

  “How about one? You can have more later.”

  “Only one? But Nella just made these!”

  “Emerson—no. Cookies are not a breakfast food.”

  He glared at Rosalind. “Maple syrup has sugar in it,” he said reasonably. “Why are pancakes a breakfast food, and pizzelles aren’t? They’re made with eggs.”

  They began to debate the merits of homemade Italian confections versus pancakes. As they did, Michael again caught Darcy’s eye. Lingering, loving, his gaze traversed her face. She found she couldn’t break off the connection—or stanch the warmth coasting through her veins.

  This, she mused, is the problem with intimacy. Now that we’ve uncorked the bottle, we can’t put the genie back inside.

  Which explained why Michael unwittingly made a mistake next. Lowering the platter to his waist, he drifted toward her. Just slightly—an inch. Enough for Emerson, his nose hovering above the platter, to sense that something was afoot.

  “Hold on.” His brows lowering, he regarded Michael. Then Darcy. “What’s going on? Aunt Darcy, you promised you’d pick another fish. Any other fish!”

  The accusation threw the room into silence. But only for a moment. A fizzy sort of irritation spun through Darcy.

  “Emerson, stop it.” Taking the platter, she placed it on the coffee table. Choosing her words with care, she faced her nephew. “I’m not taking Michael away from you. He’s not choosing between us. As a matter of fact, it’s wrong to presume you have the right to decide what another person will or will not do. He loves you.”

  “And I love Darcy too,” Michael added. He clasped the boy’s shoulders. “Understand? Love isn’t something you parcel out to just some people. You spread it around. The more people you love, the more people you’re capable of loving. Does that make sense?”

  It did, but Emerson didn’t appear fully on board. “You’re my friend,” he said. “What if you start liking Darcy more than you like me?”

  “I’m way past the ‘liking’ stage—in both instances. And I don’t want to be your friend.” Michael paused a dramatic beat, long enough to ensure Emerson hung on his every word. “I want to be your father. Which is a discussion for another day. I haven’t asked Darcy to marry me yet. No offense, but you won’t be around when I do. That’s a private matter for me and your aunt to discuss.”

  Rosalind slipped on her leather gloves. “Thank goodness that’s done. Keeping the secret was tiring. I’ll admit, I wasn’t invested in doing so for weeks on end.” She got to her feet, then smiled at her grandson. “Chin up, dear. You’ll get used to the change. Oh, and Michael—please thank Nella for making the pizzelles. I haven’t enjoyed one in ages.”

  She swept up the platter. “Cookie, anyone?”

  Chapter 27

  In the Goodridge household, Christmas arrived in October.

  Darcy lugged the pumpkin she’d bought for Halloween—a holiday now stripped from the calendar by unanimous vote—to the base of the tree where the bird feeder hung. Settin
g it down, she took stock of their handiwork. Michael was still high on the ladder, trimming the roof with lights. A fat Santa stood at the top of the front porch. The boxwood framing the house was trimmed abundantly with colored lights.

  Michael glanced down from the ladder. “How does everything look?”

  “Great. Now, come down. We’re on a schedule.”

  “One sec.”

  “We have to leave soon,” she warned. “Let’s not keep my mother waiting.”

  In the two months since the ordeal in the river, life had rapidly returned to normal. Once Rosalind put her name on the transplant list, they all avoided the topic. The waiting was nerve-racking. Nella came over daily to boost Rosalind’s spirits. Darcy continued knocking around the basement, finding dry rot to repair and other home improvements to occupy her worried mind.

  Emerson was the real problem.

  With the academic year underway, he became moodier by the day. When he trudged in from school, he clomped up to his bedroom to study. When he finished with schoolwork and grew bored with Nintendo, he flossed his teeth for long minutes before performing the habit that was now a nighttime ritual.

  Emerson would sit down at his computer, find another image of the Tin Man, and set his laser printer whirring. The wall behind his bed was plastered with Tin Man images. Three days earlier, when Rosalind—during a rare afternoon when her stamina allowed her to climb the staircase—stepped into his bedroom and glimpsed his latest project, she decided an intervention was needed to bolster the spirits of a frightened boy.

  Christmas. Immediately.

  And so, three days ago, they’d begun decorating the house. Every last box of decorations in the basement was dragged upstairs. Samson—with a teenager’s boundless energy and a keen-eyed determination to lift Emerson’s spirits—insisted on leaving nothing behind. His curiosity led him into each of the storerooms like a kid on a scavenger hunt. Large boxes, small boxes, wooden crates layered in dust with antique ornaments peeking through the yellowing tissue wrapped around them. By the time he finished scouring the basement, every bit of holiday cheer packed away by a long line of Goodridges had been lugged up the steps.