The Apple of My Eye

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  She couldn’t say anything but, “Okay.”

  I looked at Dad and his eyes mimicked Mom’s, but he too couldn’t think of any other response. I had clearly laid down the law. I was going to go it alone for three months. Dad gave himself away by subconsciously glancing towards Martha’s house. I smiled as my supposition about their visiting Martha was confirmed. My parents were as easy to read as I was.

  I almost made a remark to let on that I knew of their precautionary measures, but I stopped myself, knowing it would come out sounding snide. That was not the way I wanted to end this rescue mission of theirs. Instead, I thought with gratitude of all that they had done for me. Setting down suitcases, I reached to grab my parents in turn. Mom was holding Noah, so our embrace encompassed Noah as well, and he giggled in delight.

  “We really are going to be all right. You are welcome to call anytime, and I promise to answer, okay?” They nodded at my concession, and we piled into the car.

  . . .

  Too quickly they were deposited and gone. With a mix of loneliness and determination, Noah and I made our way home.

  When we arrived, a message was waiting for us from Professor Haynesworth. His familiar voice said, “Brea, it was actually quite easy to check out Paul’s parents. They are from Ohio like he always claimed. Len and Avalon, known as Ava, Caste were married there a little over thirty years ago. I could find no record of their deaths, but the phone number left in your phone message is registered to a Len Caste. I was able to find the address if you want it. Len and Ava had a son named Paul twenty-seven years ago. His birthdate matches your husband’s.”

  I thought that was the end of the message, but he went on. “Brea, I also checked into what kind of people they are. I found newspaper accounts of their charitable works that tout their character and virtues. I even made some phone calls to people who know them. They are good, hard-working folks, from everything I could gather. I don’t think you have anything to fear from them. Brea, I’m in class later this afternoon, but you’re welcome to call me tonight.”

  I stood there stunned. It’s what I had expected, but suddenly it was real. What should I do now? I hadn’t a clue.

  In a swift moment of decision, or as a way to avoid the decisions I really needed to make, I scooped up Noah and made a beeline for Martha’s house. I wasn’t going to stay cooped up with my own thoughts again.

  I had barely finished knocking when Martha swung the door open wide. “Come in, come in, you two. I was hoping to see you.” Just like Martha, she got right to the point. “Did you hear back from the professor?”

  “Yes. She’s real,” came spilling out of me. “She’s alive. She’s living in Ohio, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that knowledge.”

  “Oh, dearie, come in, sit down, and we’ll make a plan.” Trust Martha to help me figure things out. Why had I ever shut this woman out?

  A little later, and a half dozen fresh rolls and cookies later, we moved to her sitting room where there were comfortable chairs and a basket of toys for Noah to play with. Martha sat down deliberately in front of me, demanding my full attention simply by her posture.

  “Brea, you are going to call that woman on the phone. You need to give her the benefit of the doubt. You, Brea, are a kind and inclusive woman. Don’t let your fears change who you are. That wouldn’t be right, and you know it.”

  I had always known her to be direct but not quite this direct. I had to smile, though, at her idea of “we’ll make a plan.” It seems the professor’s phone call was not a surprise to her either. It was apparent that she had already thought this through.

  Martha’s continued words broke into my thoughts. “Now, what’s the worst that could happen? If you call her and you don’t like her, then tell her she has no place in your life.”

  I laughed. “Martha, you say that as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to say. I couldn’t tell someone that.”

  “Exactly!”

  “What?”

  “That’s just what I wanted you to realize. You can’t shut this woman out. She is the grandmother of your child. You can wait if you want, but Brea, you know deep in your heart that you need to talk to her. That is the kind of person you are.”

  I just stared at her. She was right, of course. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?” she responded, feigning innocence.

  “Peg me so exactly. You’re right. I wouldn’t be able to ignore her forever. But what if she’s horrible? Up until now, I haven’t had a mother-in-law. Now I have one, but no husband to act as buffer, not to mention the fact Paul hid that they were even alive! What if he hid them from me for a reason, like they’re monsters or something?

  “Martha, I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know what to do!” I was sounding like a whiney child, but I didn’t care. I was letting my emotions out, not bottling them up this time around. I’m not sure either approach was right, but I hadn’t discovered the middle ground yet.

  She patted my hand. “Brea, you’ll figure that out one piece at a time. You’re trying to eat the whole elephant in one bite. That doesn’t work. Just do it one bite at a time. So start by picking up the phone and dialing. You can have some questions ready ahead of time if you want, or just go with whatever comes out naturally. I’ll even offer to be with you when you call, if you think you need it. But you have to try. You need to see where this leads.”

  She was right again, but I didn’t want to concede yet. I sat still, thinking through all the possible scenarios, but I soon realized they were merely speculation. Martha was right. I wouldn’t rest until I called. I just hoped the professor was right that these were good people.

  MOMENT OF TRUTH

  The problem with meeting someone over the phone is that too much is left to the imagination, and with an imagination that had already been running wild for some time, this wasn’t the best scenario. I did call Ava Caste. The first time, the phone rang several times before I heard a voice say, “This is the Caste residence. We’re not home ...”

  I didn’t leave a message. I wasn’t sure what to say, but more than that, I didn’t want to put the ball in their court. I liked keeping what control I had, and I didn’t want to be surprised by a phone call from them and not be prepared with what to say.

  It had taken me two days to get up the courage to make that initial phone call, and I knew I would have to make another attempt soon. I kept busy to keep my mind off the inevitability of it all.

  I read the newspaper cover to cover. Somewhere in the middle, I found an article about Paul’s two accomplices. I saved reading it until I had finished the rest of the paper. Then I turned back to slowly digest its contents.

  It appeared that there was no honor among thieves. Alex Roberts had accepted a plea deal in exchange for his testimony against his cohort, whose name was Chuck Mendosa. It appeared that Alex was pretty broken up about Paul’s death. He insisted that he and Chuck attend the funeral, but Chuck prevailed upon him to continue with the robberies that had already been planned.

  The details of the crimes were laid out and replayed for the newspaper audience. Included was Paul’s involvement, but with the help of Alex’s confession, Paul’s change of heart was also highlighted.

  Just as I thought, Alex and Paul had been friends for some time, having met at the hotel. They got talking, one thing led to another, and the crime was planned. Alex knew Chuck and brought him in on the “project” early on.

  I didn’t know if Alex was truly free from any guilt in Paul’s death. He was, after all, speaking up to save his own skin, and I imagine I had grown cynical in that regard of late. But I found I couldn’t summon enough energy to care. People talk about needing closure after something happen
s like what I had experienced, and often that closure comes from the conviction of the person responsible. But it dawned on me that I already had my closure. Paul was the one who was ultimately responsible for his own death. He had been the one to put all the elements into place.

  Too many thoughts and issues were converging in my mind all at once. Could I be cynical about Alex but leave that cynicism behind when thinking of Paul? What if I never found any of the answers I was searching for; what then?

  I didn’t like considering it, but the first questions I needed to answer were about me. Regardless of who Paul was, how would I choose to live my life? Could I forgive Paul and move on, or would I live a life of anger and bitterness? I honestly didn’t know, and not knowing made me shudder. Strange as it seemed, I found the questions about Paul had been easier to stomach.

  Noah was asleep upstairs, so I called to ask Martha to come over. She knocked on my door almost before I hung up the phone. Swinging the door open, I pulled her into an embrace.

  As I let go, she leaned back to take me in. “What’s up? You seem troubled.”

  “I suppose that’s a good word for it. Come on in.”

  When we were settled in the great room I continued, “I was reading about Paul’s cohorts again in the paper, and I gained closure, I suppose, about Paul’s death.”

  “But that shouldn’t leave you ill at ease.”

  “I know. It just made me realize how little closure I have about his life. That leads me to wonder if I ever will.” I turned to look into her caring eyes. “Martha ...” I didn’t know how to find the words. Taking a deep breath, I plunged ahead. “What happens to me if I can’t get past this, if I don’t find any answers, or I don’t like the answers I do find?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  I expected her to continue, but that’s all she said. Where was her usual wisdom? I was puzzled and finally prompted, “That’s it? No advice for me?” It came out sounding desperate, but I imagine that was accurate.

  “No, Brea. I can give you all the platitudes in the world, but what you’re asking about is a deep, internal state. You are asking the right questions, though.” Then she just smiled at me.

  I felt even more frustrated and suddenly very alone. I wanted to glare at Martha, but I could more easily cut off my own ear than scowl at this woman who kept smiling, lovingly, in my direction.

  She finally relented with one little piece of advice. “Why don’t you let me stay here with Noah. You go visit your husband’s grave. Stay as long as you like. If you have made peace with his death, maybe that’s the place to find peace with your life.”

  A calm washed over me, as if her words were a warm blanket settling around my shoulders. I didn’t know how what she suggested would help, but it felt like it would somehow. I looked into her eyes, and then without a word I stood up and gathered my keys.

  “Brea, take all the time you need. I know where everything is in this house, so Noah and I will fill our bellies for supper.” Then with a serious look she added, “Go fill your soul.”

  . . .

  I spread a blanket out on the grass next to Paul’s gravestone. His etched name was visible in my peripheral vision, but my focus was the distant horizon.

  Martha had insisted I bring snacks along, but they remained untouched in my purse as I contemplated my future. Who was I really? How would I choose to live from now on?

  I remained rooted to my spot. Everything around me stopped in seeming commiseration. The wind was still; no birds sang; nothing and no one moved. Only the sun continued, almost imperceptibly, to slide down to the awaiting horizon. With its march I saw my life ebbing away before my eyes. I would grow older, but unless I moved, nothing else would change. The hurt, humiliation, and heartache would always haunt me.

  Just as the sun was ready to dip forever behind the earth, I shifted my legs that had fallen asleep. That tiny little shift brought another headstone into view a short distance away. Flowers were growing around it, and their delicate blooms were drinking in the last light of day.

  I stared at them until the last dot of sun slipped away. Dark did not descend immediately, but dusk began to deepen. I watched the little blooms until I could see them no more. But I knew they were there, even if I could not verify it with my sight, and in the dark they were still beautiful.

  With a gradual lightening that finally burst into full radiance, I realized I could do this! Paul had taught me to shine, and I would! I loved him. Even more, I knew that despite the fact that I still had questions about Paul, I could forgive him. Answers to those remaining questions would be welcome, but my forgiving him was not dependent on having them or even what they were. Forgiving him would be the gift I gave to myself and to Noah. I was beginning to allow myself to believe that he was the person I hoped he was, one who was setting his life straight. However, my forgiving him had nothing to do with what choices he was or wasn’t making. It was a separate matter altogether; it was about my choice. I had it in me to forgive him, and I would choose to do so. With that understanding, a heavy burden was lifted off my shoulders. I was standing straight and upright again. I could do this.

  . . .

  I returned home to find Noah down for the night and Martha cleaning my house. My smile answered her question. We sat together and quietly talked well into the night. My smile never wavered. We both knew I still wanted answers about Paul, but there was now hope that the answers wouldn’t devastate me.

  . . .

  The next morning, I realized I wasn’t afraid of Paul’s mother or father anymore or what they might introduce into my life. Even though their existence was a shock, it needn’t shake me. I could take it in stride.

  With renewed courage, I picked up the phone and called Ava Caste. This time she answered with a simple, “Hello.”

  What should I call her? I hadn’t thought of that. “Mrs. Caste?”

  “Yes?” It was a question, patiently awaiting my response.

  “I’m Brea Cass, Paul’s wife.”

  There was silence on the other end. I hadn’t thought about this being just as difficult for her as it was for me. Finally she spoke. In her voice I could hear her tears. “I was hoping you would call. I so loved Paul. It was such a shock to hear of his death ... and everything surrounding it.” She was tiptoeing around the crime, whether for her sake or mine I didn’t know, but I understood.

  She continued, “I didn’t know he had married and had a child. It’s like getting a little piece of him back. I got ready to call you a million times, but I didn’t know if you would welcome it.” She paused briefly, but not long enough for me to respond. The words were flowing out, having been held back too long and probably rehearsed in her head. “I didn’t know what Paul had said about us. Would you even want us in your life? I’m sorry if I’m saying too much or reading too much into the fact that you called me back.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” I assured her. “It was more of a shock than anything. Paul hadn’t really told me much about you.”

  “Oh. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. When he left home so full of himself I didn’t know when I would see him again. I never dreamed that I wouldn’t. I’m sorry to pry, but did he say anything at all?”

  I hesitated to answer, but lying now wasn’t going to help. It never did, as I kept telling myself. “There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs. Caste, but Paul told me that the two of you had died in a car crash a few years before we met.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end followed by a sigh. “I wasn’t expecting that, but maybe I should have since I know he changed his last name. I often underestimated him.”

  That was a leading comment, but this was not a conversation I wanted to delve int
o over the phone. I needed to see her eyes, and in return, see if she would look me in the eye when she talked to me of Paul. I wanted to feel with every fiber of my being that she was telling me the truth.

  I purposely shifted focus. “Mrs. Caste, would you like to meet your grandson sometime?”

  The voice on the other end immediately perked up. She almost squealed with delight. “I would love that so much, you have no idea!”

  I hadn’t planned on offering to meet. I hadn’t planned out any of this. Once I had found the courage to call again, I didn’t stop to think about what I would say or where I wanted the conversation to go. However, once I mentioned meeting, I felt good and warm. Surely this was the right course to take.

  We talked over some logistics on the phone, and I said I would get back to her with our specific arrangements. When we were done she ended with, “Thank you for calling me. It means the world to me.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m glad you called me in the first place,” and I was surprised to realize I really meant it.

  MARTHA AND MARMALADE

  I allowed myself a month before I would be flying to Ohio to meet Paul’s parents. I didn’t know if that would be nearly enough time to prepare myself, yet I didn’t want to put it off too long.

  To help the time pass, and hopefully prepare myself, I spent more and more time at Martha’s house. Her advice was always helpful, but her comforting presence became even more valuable.

  “Martha,” I asked her one day over toast with Martha’s homemade orange marmalade, “do you think Paul loved me?”

  “Of course I do, Brea. He may not have been a perfect man, but he wasn’t fool enough to not know what he had.”