Tenderness. That’s what it was. Talia had contracted food poisoning a few weeks before her final Christmas. Taking care of her, Miriam had felt this same beautiful ache. So often, life with Talia had been a battle. For that fleeting thirty-six hours, Talia had belonged to her again. She was needed—and, more importantly, wanted.
Dicey’s coughing fit lasted a long time. When it finally slowed, Miriam pulled a bottle out of the bag and handed it over. Dicey drank, coughed again, and drank some more. She was sweating.
A bicycle bell dinged; Miriam scrambled to clear the path so the group could pass by. Then she braced herself and helped Dicey to her feet. “I think we need to turn around, honey,” she said.
“No!” Dicey pulled a pill bottle out of her backpack and tossed back a tablet. “I just can’t talk anymore. Not while I’m walking.”
Miriam regarded her with a focus she hadn’t felt in a long time, her own troubles distant and insignificant. “Dicey,” she said, “what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“But I am worried. I care about you.”
“Then help me up and let’s get going.”
But as soon as she started walking, Dicey clutched her abdomen again. “Damn, that hurts,” she said through gritted teeth. “That’s been happening more often. Like some muscle’s about to snap.”
“Oh, I know what that is. Round ligament pain.” Miriam took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. Mom’s warnings about traveling with a pregnant woman sounded more justified today than she’d given them credit for.
“The fact that you knew what it is from that pathetic description does not comfort me. Is it that common?”
“Well, it certainly happened to me a lot.” Miriam shook her head. “Look, it’s not worth this. Let’s just head back.”
“No!” Dicey took several deep breaths. Frustration flitted across her face and then gave way to resignation. “I’ll go back. But you need to do this.”
For Dicey to admit weakness, she must be feeling wretched. Miriam gripped her elbow. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
“Give me the keys. I’ll go sit in the car. It’ll be fine. You need this time. Take it.”
Miriam bit her lip. She did want this. Very much. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ve got your phone number if I need you. I could use a nap anyway, and there are plenty of snacks. Go on. And don’t you rush yourself either! Do this thing properly.”
Miriam raised her hands, laughing. “All right, all right,” she said, and started down the trail toward the bridge. A hundred yards down the path, she peeked over her shoulder.
Dicey was watching. “Go!” she yelled.
Miriam laughed and faced forward.
* * *
The trail unfolded beneath Miriam’s feet. It was uncannily quiet, with only the crickets and native grasses and trees and the sky for company. Beautiful, but a little lonely.
“Happy,” Brad had said. “You should let yourself be happy.”
She’d be satisfied with much less. She’d be content to walk with her head held high and her heart unfettered again.
How did one simply choose to be happy?
One foot in front of the other. Her feet hurt. Talia’s artistically beat-up Mary Poppins boots were not designed for long walks.
She spotted the twin obelisks marking the end of the bridge long before she reached them. They were built of blond stone, wide at the base, tapering toward the sky, with veins of charcoal running through them. As she passed between the towers, she understood why Blaise had chosen this out-of-the-way, uninspiring-sounding landmark as a destination for the trip. The High Trestle Trail Bridge really was a work of art. Massive rust-colored square frames, angled in a radial pattern, dotted the crossing and created a tunnel effect in the center of the bridge. These must be the “cribbings” Blaise had mentioned.
A bicycle bell rang behind them. “On your left!”
Miriam hugged the rail. The man passed, followed by a woman with a toddler on a seat behind her. “Beautiful day!” she said.
And it was. Miriam glanced over her shoulder. It was a long way down—and a long way across. The wind kept blowing her hair in her face, no matter how many times she tucked it behind her ears. She pulled out her phone to take a pano of the river bottoms, just beginning to emerge from the spring rise. Patches of grass and black soil peeked from the water. Birds circled low, dipping in to grab dinner. So peaceful. So quiet.
The wind grabbed the tassels of Miriam’s scarf-headband and slapped her across the face with them. Miriam chuckled and set off again, now at a leisurely amble. As she walked, she sent the photo to Dicey. Her coiled insides were finally beginning to relax.
On the far side of the cribbings, the bridge deck widened to accommodate twin viewing platforms. She stopped there and shouldered out of the guitar case, letting it rest against the rail as she took in the scenery. Momentarily her phone buzzed. Wow, Dicey said. Wish I could’ve made it.
Miriam crossed her hands on opposite arms, rubbing them for warmth. It was chilly here, much chillier than May in Atlanta, but not as cold as May in the Detroit of her childhood.
When she’d had her fill, she unzipped the guitar case and pulled it out, slipping the strap over her neck and checking the tuning. Then she looked around. There really wasn’t anywhere to sit. She hoisted herself onto the railing in the corner of the overlook platform, wrapping her feet around the bars for stability.
She closed her eyes, searching the vaults of her memory, and began playing softly, then humming “Georgia on My Mind.” How many times had she come home from running kids to practices to hear these chords and Teo’s lovely rich baritone, drifting in from the back deck? It was one of his favorites.
Involuntarily, her lips parted, forming the words quietly, an intimate love song to the place she’d lived with her husband.
It felt like forever since she’d sung. At least, sung like this, with the music vining tenderly around her heart, drawing emotion from her soul, thickening her voice. The song ended too soon. The wind gusted as she transitioned to another of his old standbys—the Fauré “Pie Jesu,” which they’d often sung at weddings at St. Greg’s. Usually, brides wanted the piano or organ, but once in a while Teo convinced someone to let him accompany. It was lovely that way. She closed her eyes, leaning into the music as the cold wind blew her hair around her face. She wasn’t nearly good enough to do it justice, but it brought Teo closer.
In some ways, that was worse. This raw, burning ache in her throat—this gaping hole beneath her sternum—those hurt far worse than guilt and self-recrimination.
Her fingers stilled on the strings. She became aware of the low, mournful keening of the wind, the cry of hawks circling on invisible currents. Aware of the wet, dank smell of mud far below. Of the chill against her skin that grew deeper every moment as the watery sun sank toward the horizon.
“That was absolutely beautiful, ma’am,” said a voice.
She opened her eyes. Leaning on the opposite rail stood a man with gray hair and glasses. Around seventy, she guessed. “Hello,” she said.
“I’ve never heard anybody play out here.”
“It’s a long way to haul an instrument,” she said.
He smiled and nodded, staring at the sinking sun. “It is, that. But worth it if you play like you.”
“You’re far too kind.” Miriam flexed her butt muscles, which were starting to numb against the metal railing. She had a suspicion what was coming, and it meant she’d be here for a while longer. She was starting to get a sixth sense for people who’d experienced loss.
His next words confirmed it. “My wife was a musician,” he said, leaning on the rail.
“Vocal or instrumental?”
“High school choir director. Voice like an angel. We met in a choir, you know. Community choir, for Christmas. Got married six months later.”
“When did you lose her?”
“Six weeks ago,” he said,
shaking his head. “Real sudden-like.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. She loved this bridge. Walked it nearly every day. We live just over there.” He waved indiscriminately toward the far end of the bridge. “I was always too busy. Too tired from taking extra shifts, to give her nice trips, when all she wanted was to be with me.”
Miriam nodded. She knew that regret all too well.
“I was taking voice lessons before she died, though,” he said. “I was going to surprise her on our anniversary. But we didn’t make it.”
Miriam’s heart went out to him. She opened and closed her mouth, trying to decide whether to tell him her story: the loss, the significance of today in her marriage.
Teo’s presence perched on her shoulder, the way it had the day she met Dicey. “You know what he needs,” it seemed to say.
“What were you going to sing?” she asked. “On your anniversary?”
He looked surprised. “Schubert. ‘Du bist die Ruh.’”
She smiled and nodded. “A good choice. Good pronunciation too.”
He smiled. “I had German in high school, you know, a couple hundred years ago.”
Miriam smiled too. The query was enough; the man was satisfied he’d been heard. But Teo’s presence hovered around her, nudging her to go further.
I’m not good enough, she told it.
“Doesn’t matter,” he would have said. And of course he was right.
“Would you like to sing it now?” she asked.
He turned to her, startled. “Really?”
“Keep your expectations low,” she warned. “I’m a pianist, not a guitarist. But I think I could muddle my way through it.”
He raised his shoulders. “Well, I’m a grocery store manager, not a singer, so we’re even on that score.” He pushed off the wall, assuming a posture that would have made Maria Callas proud. Miriam noodled around a minute, getting her bearings in a song she’d only ever played on piano, and then nodded.
He was right—his was not a trained voice. But it was a beautiful one. Clear and unaffected. The kind of voice people would love to hear cantor at church.
She’d forgotten how beautiful this song was. Or maybe it just meant more, coming from a man who’d undertaken to learn it as a gesture of love. She didn’t know German, but she remembered the gist of the translation: a lullaby to absolute trust. A testament of love made all the more powerful by the fact that it never used the word at all.
It was the perfect song to dedicate to Teo on this day.
When the song ended, the man put his hand down heavily on the rail. Miriam’s breath felt slightly tremulous.
He looked up, his eyes bright. He crossed the distance between them and hugged her, guitar and all. “Thank you,” he said.
Her heart contracted. Bittersweet: yet another emotion rediscovered. A pang, profound and painful, but pure. Not infused with self-recrimination. For once, she’d done Teo proud.
“My pleasure,” she whispered.
Part 6
Chimney Rock, Nebraska
I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.
—Mother Teresa
Talia’s intro to Chimney Rock
So, Chimney Rock. This one’s way off the beaten path. It’s a big rock out at the far edge of nowhere Nebraska, but it looks way cool. It’s about 300 feet high, so you can’t miss it. And when the settlers were on the Oregon Trail, this was one of the big landmarks that let them know they hadn’t gotten lost in all that grass.
It’s got a visitors center run by the National Park Service, so you guys can read signs to your hearts’ content. Yawn. We’ll be having fun at Interlochen.
24
Tuesday, May 3
Omaha, Nebraska
WIND FARMS AND FIELDS: western Iowa in a nutshell. Lots and lots of fields. A few displayed rows of tiny, bright green plants marching away into the distance, but most were still bare black earth, striped with planting furrows.
Dicey had given up on the view long ago, burying herself in her scrapbook app, but Miriam found it soothing, a calm counterpoint to the intensity of the last few days. They’d slept in this morning and then gone out for a huge, sit-down breakfast. Now they were getting close to Omaha. Nebraska, for heaven’s sake. Never, in all her daydreams about traveling the world, had she imagined visiting Nebraska.
Her phone rang through the Bluetooth. Miriam punched “Answer” without looking at the ID. “Hello?”
“Oh, so you are alive!”
Miriam smacked the back of her head against the headrest. “Hi, Jo.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled. I suppose I ought to be grateful you answered, considering you flaked out on me last night.”
Miriam gritted her teeth. Apparently Jo’s lack of pushiness only had enough staying power for one day. “Look, I did what you wanted. I talked to Mom. I asked her for some space, and she gave it to me. Which I’m sure you know because you talk to Mom all the time. So how about you ease up?”
“All right, pipe down. I didn’t call to pick a fight.”
Dicey flashed Miriam a look that clearly communicated: Coulda fooled me! Miriam bit back a laugh, knowing it would only aggravate Jo further and make whatever this was last longer.
“I only have five minutes,” Jo said. “If you’d called me last night when you were supposed to …”
“I believe you said something about not picking a fight?”
Dicey gave her a fist pump.
“All right, all right.” Jo took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “It’s just a crazy day. It would have been much better to do this last night.”
Miriam didn’t argue, but she knew her sister. Jo worked around the clock; last night, this morning—it made no difference.
“So I have an idea that will help everyone,” Jo said. “My firm is opening an office in Albuquerque. I can guarantee you a position as an administrative assistant. You can live with Mom.”
Miriam picked her jaw up off the floor. “You’re kidding.”
“It’ll be good for both of you. Mom’s seventy-five. She needs someone to look after her, and Brad and I can’t relocate. But you can.”
“Because my life and my work are so much less important than yours?”
“Miriam.” Jo infused the word with deep scorn. “Don’t act like a child. You know there’s nothing for you in Atlanta now.”
“No, thank you.”
“See? I knew you’d react this way. Mom thought you’d listen, but I—damn it!”
“What?” Miriam said, making sure her tone communicated her displeasure.
“They’re early. I’ve got to take this call.” Jo made it sound like the interruption was Miriam’s fault. She spit out the rest in a rush. “Look, I know you don’t like change, but think about it. For Mom’s sake. And yours. Whether you know it or not, you need this.”
“Goodbye, Jo.”
“I’ll call you later.” The phone went dead.
Dicey drummed her fingers on the door. “Well, that was awkward.”
“Yeah.”
“You know, I’m not entirely sure I like your sister.”
Miriam laughed. “I learned long ago the best way to deal with Jo is curl up in a ball and let her bulldoze through. Eventually, she’ll run out of steam.”
“I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Ignore her calls.”
Miriam made a noise of opposition. “You don’t know Jo. There’s a reason she climbed the corporate ladder as quickly as she has. She doesn’t roll over when she wants something. You ignore her, she escalates.”
Dicey made a face but didn’t argue. She pulled out her pink spangled phone and held it up to photograph the state line sign as the Hyundai glided smoothly onto the bridge across the Missouri River. “Nebraska … the good life!” it proclaimed.
Miriam’s phone dinged again. Dicey sighed as she exchanged one phone for the oth
er. “Boy, she’s a real piece of work. Making deals and texting at the same—oh.”
“Oh what?”
“It’s not her. It’s your friend, Captain von Trapp, or whatever.”
Miriam winced. “He’s not my friend. What’s it say?”
“Just put the program in the mail. Well, I’m so glad he shared that enlightening and useful piece of information.”
Miriam chuckled.
Dicey tapped Miriam’s phone on her palm. “Does it seem weird that he’s texting you so much?”
Miriam raised her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“It just seems like kind of … I don’t know, entitled behavior, if you aren’t actually friends.”
Miriam snorted. “Entitled sounds about right.”
“So, you want to reply or not?”
Not really. But courtesy dictated otherwise. “Just say, ‘Thanks.’”
Dicey complied, coughing into her elbow as she did, and dropped the phone back in the well. But in a moment, it dinged again. Dicey sucked an annoyed breath through her teeth, but she picked it up and read it:
So this is going to sound crazy, but I’ve been looking at your social media, and you look familiar to me. Have we met before? Or is it just because Blaise looks like you?
Dicey looked at Miriam. “Whoa. If you want to tell him, I’d say that’s an opening.”
“You want me to tell him by text message?”
Dicey held up her hands. A mile or two of industrial Omaha passed by the windows before Gus’s next text dinged. Dicey lifted the phone.
I hope I’m not offending you. It’s the last thing I intend.
“He must be wondering why you haven’t replied,” Dicey said.
“Well, he’s going to have to keep wondering.”
“Uh, okay …” Dicey sounded doubtful.
Another ding: If it’s the e-mail thing, I just want you to know, I had no idea you didn’t know Blaise and I were e-mailing.
Dicey looked over at Miriam. “I think you’re gonna have to—”
Ding.
Dicey’s sigh signaled her growing impatience with her role in this one-sided communication.
A Song for the Road Page 16
