“What?”
“If she was waiting for you, but you never went back because you was afraid.”
I just stared at him. Then a smile slowly spread across my face. He dropped the sandwiches in a paper sack along with a half bag of barbeque potato chips. “You coming?”
“I think I have a plane to catch.”
“Well, get on the phone with the airline. I can’t be waiting for you all day.”
I called Tennys to tell her I was going back to Utah. Though I think she was disappointed, you wouldn’t know it. I swear you could tell that woman that her hair was on fire and she’d ask if the flames matched her blouse.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
I left Huntsville three days before Christmas but didn’t arrive in Salt Lake City until the day before Christmas Eve. In the mad rush of holiday travel, the airline had oversold the flight from Atlanta, and I was the only one willing to give up my seat for a free round-trip ticket, dinner and hotel stay. I called Victor from Alabama, and he agreed to pick me up from the airport and, somewhat begrudgingly, agreed to let me use the Malibu for the time I was in Utah.
The plane touched down in Salt Lake around seven at night. I found Victor reading a science fiction novel in the baggage claim area. I drove him home, then went straight to Macy’s.
The duplex was dark, and three newspapers lay on the ground next to the front porch. Joette’s car was still in the driveway, its windshield covered with an inch of snow, crusted hard with a layer of ice. Macy’s car was gone. I rang the doorbell at least three times, but no one answered. Then I walked around the house and looked into the windows. There was no sign that anyone was there.
I puzzled over where to go next and decided on the Hut. It was a quiet night at the café. Christmas music was playing and there were a few couples sitting at tables, bags and boxes from last-minute shopping piled at their feet. I walked up to the front counter. The girl at the cash register recognized me.
“Hey, you’re the guitar player.”
“Yeah. Have you seen Macy?”
“Mary?”
“Whatever.”
“Mary hasn’t been on the schedule lately. I heard her mom’s at the hospital. She was real sick.”
My chest constricted. “Do you know which hospital?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, I wouldn’t know.”
“Who would?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“She must have told someone. Maybe she wrote it down.”
“Don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I’ll look in the back.” She walked back to the office and returned a few minutes later. “I called Jeff. He said she’s at Holy Cross Hospital.”
“Thanks.” I ran to the door.
“I hope you come back and play again,” she shouted after me. “You were awesome.”
I sped downtown to the hospital. I parked on the third level of the hospital’s parking terrace and ran across the street. Christmas music played in the hospital’s lobby. The volunteer at the reception desk wore a Santa hat and a jingle-bell necklace. She told me Joette was on the sixth floor of the hospital’s west wing, Room 616.
It was a quarter past midnight when I walked into the semiprivate room. The two beds were separated by a drape hung between them from a metal rail.
Joette was asleep in the bed farthest from the door. The head of the bed was slightly raised and a small reading lamp was on above her. Macy was asleep next to her, her head resting against Joette’s side. Even in the dim light I could see how much Joette had physically declined in the few weeks I was gone. If I hadn’t known this was her room, I probably wouldn’t have recognized her.
I had only been standing there a few minutes when a nurse walked in. I startled her. She said in a voice slightly above a whisper, “It’s past visiting hours. You’ll have to leave.”
I gestured for the nurse to follow me, and we stepped out into the hallway. “I’m sorry. I just got in town. How is she?”
She frowned. “She’s dying. Her liver is shutting down.”
“How long does she have?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen people in her condition last a few hours and I’ve seen them linger on for days. It’s all in God’s time. But I don’t expect it will be too much longer.” She frowned. “I’m sorry, but unless you’re immediate family, visiting hours were over at nine.”
“The thing is she asked me to look after her daughter. And if this is her last night, I should be here.”
The nurse looked at me for a moment, unsure of what to do.
“It’s Christmas,” I said, playing the holiday trump card.
“Alright.”
“Thank you.”
The nurse returned to her rounds and I went back inside the room. There was a recliner next to Joette’s bed and I sat back in it. I mostly watched Macy as she lay sleeping next to her mother. I wondered how long she’d gone without sleep. I wanted to hold her and comfort her just as she had me the night we first met. She moaned lightly in her sleep. I walked over to her side and put my arm around her. She shifted a little, said something I didn’t understand, then raised her head and looked around, her eyes droopy, her hair matted to one side. She looked at me, blinked several times, then her eyes widened. She said in a whisper, “Mark?”
“Hi, Mace.”
She stared at me in disbelief. “You came back.”
“I did.”
“Joette…”
“I know,” I said. I pulled her into me and held her. Then I said, “Come here.”
I helped her up from the chair, then led her back to the recliner, sat down and pulled her onto my lap. She cuddled into me. Then she lifted her head. “What exactly are you doing here, Mr. Smart?”
“Just rest,” I said. “Get your sleep. I’ll watch Joette.”
She laid her head back into my chest. “You came back,” she said sleepily.
I put my hand on the back of her head and gently stroked her hair. “Yeah,” I said, “I’m back.”
I have come to believe that there are moments too profound to be contained in time.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
CHRISTMAS EVE
I woke early the next morning with Macy still asleep in my arms. Joette was awake and looking at us. In the predawn morning light I could see the jaundiced tint of her skin and eyes. Still, she looked peaceful.
“Hi, Joette,” I said softly.
“Hi, Mark.”
I reached for her hand. It felt small and fragile in mine. “How are you?” I asked. In the history of stupid questions this had to be the atom bomb of them all.
She forced a smile. I gently rubbed my thumb across her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” she whispered.
She closed her eyes and appeared to fall back asleep. Twenty minutes later she opened her eyes again. Her speech was slurred but coherent. “Did you see your father?”
I nodded. “Yes. All is well in Oz.”
She smiled.
“Thank you, Joette. You’ve done so much for Macy. And for me.”
She ran her tongue over her teeth. “Take care of my girl.”
“I will.”
She closed her eyes again and fell back to sleep. Macy also continued to sleep. Around eight a nurse came in and checked Joette’s vitals. She didn’t say anything to me but didn’t need to. Joette’s final journey had begun.
Macy woke shortly after nine. She jerked upright, afraid that Joette might have slipped away while she slept. I guessed her thoughts and squeezed her hand. “She’s still here,” I said.
Again, Macy seemed surprised to see me, and I suspect that earlier she may have thought my return a dream. Macy got up and used the restroom, then returned to her vigil in the plastic chair next to Joette’s bed. I went down to the cafeteria and got Macy an orange juice and a bagel with cream cheese, neither of which she ever touched.
The next eighteen hours crawled by. Joette slept, waking a few times to look for Macy. Macy periodically r
ubbed Vaseline on Joette’s parched lips and moistened her mouth with oral swabs. Through it all Macy never left her side.
After midnight the nurse on call began upping Joette’s dose of morphine, and she became less coherent and less aware of her surroundings. At one point Joette looked up to a corner of the room and just stared. Then a tear fell down her cheek and she spoke in a clear voice: “Not yet.”
“Do you see someone?” Macy asked.
Her voice was a whisper. “Angel.”
“You see an angel?” I asked.
“No,” Macy said. She leaned close to Joette’s cheek. “Is Angela here?”
Joette silently mouthed a yes.
Macy’s eyes filled with tears. “Go with her, Mom. You can leave. I’ll be okay.”
Joette turned and looked into Macy’s eyes.
Macy began sobbing softly. “I love you.”
After a few minutes I came over and put my hand on Macy’s back. Then I leaned over and kissed Joette on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, Jo,” I said softly. “To you and Angela.”
I don’t know exactly how long we sat there that Christmas Eve, in the dim little room on the sixth floor of Holy Cross Hospital, but somewhere in the night, for the second time in her life, Macy lost her mother.
The world is a little darker today.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
JOETTE’S FUNERAL
Joette was buried two days after Christmas. I offered Macy some of the money my father had given me to pay for her service, but she didn’t need it. Joette had already made all the arrangements and paid the funeral home in advance. Even in death she was looking after Macy.
The service was beautiful. It was held at a nearby Mormon church, and the burial was at a small suburban cemetery called Elysian Fields.
There were more than a hundred people at Joette’s service, most of them former Denny’s employees and her customers. It was an eclectic bunch. Some wore traditional suits or dresses, but there were also those in Harley-Davidson leathers, old men with tweed slacks and cardigan sweaters and truck drivers in denim and flannel. Joette belonged to all of them. She was waitress, marriage counselor, therapist and for a few of them, dream girl. One gruff-looking truck driver who wore broad-lens aviator glasses to hide his grief left a ten-dollar bill on her casket. I guess he wanted to leave her one last tip.
After the funeral we were stopped on the way to our car by a man who introduced himself as Joette’s ex–brother-in-law. Without an explanation, he handed Macy a manila envelope, expressed his condolences, then walked away.
I drove Macy back to her house. I knew that going home without Joette would be especially difficult, and I was right: Macy nearly collapsed as we walked inside. I carried her to the couch and I held her as she wept. Her grief was inconsolable.
We sat there in the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, grieving the loss of a friend. The only thing Macy said was, “This was meant to happen at Christmas. That’s the way Jo would have wanted it.”
It was several hours later before Macy opened the envelope. Inside was a copy of Joette’s will. Not surprisingly, Joette had been planning her departure for some time. She had saved a decent nest egg and purchased a small insurance policy that paid off the mortgage on the duplex. Not surprisingly, she had left everything to Macy.
There was also another envelope containing a letter that had been written during Joette’s final weeks. Macy opened the envelope and unfolded the linen stationery. The paper was embossed with two ruby slippers set above the words There’s no place like home. Just seeing Joette’s handwriting caused Macy to cry. In between her tears she slowly read the letter.
To my Sweet Macy,
When you receive this letter, I will be gone. But not forever. One night, as I struggled in the midnight hours with my pain and fear, I prayed with all the energy of my heart to know what awaited me on the other side. God spoke to my soul, and I knew for a certainty that all would be well—that I would not only be reunited with my Angela but, someday, with you as well. From that moment on I’ve felt at peace. I know your heart is breaking right now, but fear not. God has conquered death. And one day we will all be home again. Together. I’ll be waiting for you, my darling. But in the meantime make the most of every moment you are blessed to have. Love. Hurt. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Stumble. And drink lots of chocolate!!!
There’s one more thing I wanted you to know. I have always looked forward to the day when you had a child of your own. It is one of the greatest disappointments of my life that I won’t get to share that with you. Let me tell you now—you WILL feel inadequate. You will wonder how you can do it right, especially since you never really had a good role model of your own. But don’t worry, you’ll do fine. Any child would be lucky to have you as a mother. Remember, in the end what really matters is that you love. You’ll make mistakes every day, but somehow love just washes them away like a wave cleansing the beach, and each day you start anew.
My sweet Macy, your heart abounds in love! I know, because I’ve been the lucky recipient of it for these wonderful years we’ve shared. I have been the luckiest of women. You were God’s gift to me. I have grown to respect and revere you in so many ways. I once told a customer that I wanted to grow up and be like you. Thank you for teaching me what it means to be a friend. All I’ve ever given you was a small portion back of what you’ve given me. I’ll be waiting. But don’t come too soon. You still have a lot of life to live! Eternally yours,
Your mother,
Jo
I am grateful for new years and new beginnings. It is a great human need to be periodically reborn.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
NEW YEAR’S EVE
The living room fireplace crackled and hissed as Macy and I sat together on the couch watching Dick Clark and the crowds in Times Square. It was not even ten o’clock when Macy asked to turn off the television. She wasn’t in the mood for festivities, televised or otherwise. I had made us dinner—barbequed ribs, my mother’s recipe—and we had eaten in the living room. Macy took our plates back into the kitchen and began filling the sink with water, when the doorbell rang.
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked.
“No.”
I went to the door and opened it. A young woman stood in the doorway. She looked like she had stepped from the window of an exclusive Park City boutique and wore a beautiful full-length shearling coat. Even though I had never seen her before, I had no doubt who I was looking at, for she looked just like Macy. It was Noel.
“I’m looking for Macy Wood,” she said. “Is my sister here?”
“We’ve been looking for you.”
“I know.”
“Come on in.”
Noel stepped inside. “Hey, Macy,” I called. Just then Macy walked back into the living room. “Who was—” she froze. For a minute the two women just stared at each other, unsure of how to react.
Noel spoke first. “Hi, Macy.”
“Noel.”
Noel walked to her and a big smile crossed her face. Then they threw their arms around each other. “I can’t believe it,” Macy said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Why don’t you sit down,” I said. What else was there to say?
The two sisters sat next to each other, their eyes fixed on each other’s faces.
“I didn’t think your mother would tell you about me,” Macy said.
“She wasn’t going to. I made her tell me.”
“But how did you know to ask?”
“I found this.” She pulled a yellowed piece of paper from her coat pocket and handed it to Macy. “It’s a letter from Mom. Our mom.”
Macy read:
My little Noel,
It’s two in the morning, and for the past several hours I’ve been lying here staring at the clock, unable to sleep. I do not sleep well these days. The cancer makes it hard to find any comfort. My body is weakening, but my mind is full of energy, so I need to write while I still can. I worry constantly about what
will happen when I am gone. Your father has struggled with his addiction. He has been good of late, but I worry what will happen without me. Oh, how I hope I’m wrong. I made him promise, for your sakes, that he will beat this. For if he fails, I don’t know what will become of you. This fear grips my heart even more than death. Who will take care of my babies? Your big sister, Macy, seems to sense this. She’s only five, yet she watches over you like a mother hen. I know she’ll try her best to take care of you. She already does. I worry for her, because the world is too big, too hard, for a little girl. If Dad doesn’t keep his promise, you will be taken away from him, and it is possible that you could be separated from each other. I pray that this is not the case. You are still so small, you might not even remember your sister. I write this note, like a note in a bottle, sent with hope that providence might lead you to it. I know that someday, when the time is right, you will find this. When you do, you must find your sister. You must be together. I don’t know what influence I might have from the other realm, but I will do what I can. Wherever you are, my love, know that I am looking over you and your sister. I love you with all my heart.
Mom
Macy looked back up at Noel.
“Where did you get this?”
“I was helping my mom put away the Christmas ornaments when one of them—my special ornament—fell from the tree and shattered. At first I was heartbroken. Then I saw this note in the middle of the broken glass.”
She took Macy’s hand. “When I read it, it was as if a dam broke. All these memories just poured into my head. And suddenly everything made sense—why I don’t look a thing like my brothers or my parents.” She put her hand on Macy’s knee. “But more than that, I finally understood the dreams. I’ve dreamt about a girl named Macy my whole life. She was my imaginary friend. Whenever I was sad or afraid, she was there for me.
“Once, when I was seven, I was walking home from school when the neighbor boys started teasing me. One of them stole my lunchbox, and I suddenly shouted out for you. I had no idea why. I just shouted ‘Macy.’ They looked around, and then they dropped my lunchbox and ran away. I didn’t know why I had said your name. But from then on I believed that if I said it I’d be safe.” She looked at Macy and smiled. “Thank you for always being there for me.”
Finding Noel Page 15
