“You know, Grace, you and Andrew should go home and get some rest,” Allison suggested.
“Yes,” Muriel agreed. “And you should take Allison with you. She’s had a rough night, what with her swim in the inlet and all. I’m afraid she’ll be sick next.”
“I will not go home,” Allison declared stubbornly.
“I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Grace added.
Andrew nodded. “And Heather and Winston are quite able to take care of things. . . .”
Allison walked down the hallway and stood at the long, narrow window. The sun was just coming over the hill and the sky was a deep, rosy shade of pink. Allison remembered the red sunset last night and her discussion with Grandpa about the sailor’s warning. Was it only last night? It seemed a lifetime ago.
“Would you like some coffee, dear?” Grace asked from behind.
Allison spun around and exploded. “What was Grandpa doing out there in the middle of the night?” Grace jumped in surprise and splashed the scalding hot coffee on her fingers.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Grace. Here, let me help you,” Allison apologized, wiping the coffee from Grace’s hand. “It’s just that it hit me just now—why was Grandpa out in a boat at two in the morning?”
“I must admit, Allison, I wondered the same thing. I have absolutely no idea. Only Riley could tell you that.” She sipped her coffee and looked out the window. “I just spoke with Dr. Hartley—no improvement, no change . . . I really think you should go home and rest. Muriel told me about the telegram last night. On top of everything else, I’m afraid you’re going to wear yourself out. We need to take care of you for Riley’s sake. You must realize that he could be here for days—”
“No, really, Grace, I’m fine. Please don’t make me leave yet. I couldn’t bear it.”
Grace put her arm around her. “Allison, I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I must tell you this. Every time I’ve gone through a trial I’ve tried to trust God, and in the end things always work out. Oh, maybe not like we expect, but they do work out.”
Allison remembered Andrew’s words. They had both said the same thing. Maybe that meant they were right. Maybe that meant Grandpa would be okay.
“Allison,” Dr. Hartley approached them. “Your grandfather has regained consciousness. He wants to see you—but you must only stay briefly. He’s extremely weak and not out of the woods yet.”
Allison hugged Grace and dashed down the hall to Grandpa’s room. She entered quietly and stood by his bed. Everything looked just as before, except that she noticed his eyelids flutter ever so slightly. Then they opened. Allison looked into his gray-blue eyes and a speck of hope crept into her heart like a warm ember. Drawing closer, she reached for his hand.
“Allison,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
“For what, Grandpa?”
“For coming to me . . . for bringing the letter . . .
She could see speaking was difficult for him, and she felt torn between her desire to hear his words and wanting him to save his strength. But he was an O’Brian and, as Muriel so often pointed out, was bound to do as he liked.
“You gave me back my Jamie, Allison. I’ve been such a fool. . . .”
Allison shook her head as tears filled her eyes. “No, Grandpa, you’re not a fool—”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve forgiven him. That’s all that matters. Now everything will be okay. . . .” He smiled and Allison’s heart grew warmer. She could think of no words to say, but she held his hand and attempted to pour all her love down through her arm like a funnel into Grandpa. Soon the gray-haired nurse came in and nudged her.
“I love you, Grandpa, more than anyone in the whole world. I love you. See you later.” He smiled and the nurse gently pulled her away. Allison released her grasp on his fingers, and he peacefully closed his eyes.
“How’s he doing?” Muriel asked in the waiting room. Grace and Andrew listened anxiously.
“He’s much better,” Allison said. “He even talked to me.”
“That’s wonderful,” Muriel replied. “I think we should go get a bite to eat before one of us needs a hospital bed. I can guarantee the cafeteria food is lousy, but there’s a cafe down the street. I’ll let them know at the front desk where we’ll be in case they need to call us.”
The little cafe felt cozy and cheerful compared to the sterile environment of the hospital. Allison took a deep breath and attempted to relax in the padded booth. She felt tired to the bone but at the same time energized by the hope that Grandpa was getting well. They all ordered hearty breakfasts, but no one had much of an appetite.
“I just know he’s going to be better,” Allison stated.
“Me too, darling,” Muriel agreed.
She attempted to put a few bites of her breakfast into her mouth, but her stomach rebelled. “I’m ready to go back now,” she announced, pushing an almost full plate toward the center of the table.
“I’ll go with you,” Andrew offered. He finished a strip of bacon and escorted Allison across the street.
“I really think you and Grace were right, Andrew. I’m just certain Grandpa is going to be all right and everything will work out in the end.” She even ventured a feeble smile.
Dr. Hartley met them at the big swinging door. His eyes were sad. “Where are Grace and Muriel?” he asked, and Allison heard his voice catch. Andrew nodded wordlessly to the cafe across the street. Dr. Hartley took Allison gently by the arm and led her back across the street.
No! Allison screamed in her mind. Her ears started to ring, and the street looked all fuzzy. She saw Grace and Muriel, but they were fuzzy, too. Muriel rushed toward them.
“What is it, Dr. Hartley?”
“Riley’s gone,” he stated. “There was nothing more we could do. You knew it was just a matter of time. . . .”
Allison shook her head, trying to comprehend his meaning, but everything blurred—spun—faded into darkness. . . .
A strange light filtered through the curtains. Allison rubbed her eyes and looked around. She was in her own room, and the sweet rosebuds smiled happily on the wallpaper. What time was it? Her clock said it wasn’t quite eight, but it didn’t feel like morning. Allison looked out her window to see dark clouds fill the sky. Maybe this was all just a horrible nightmare. Maybe Grandpa was downstairs in the dining room, just waiting for her to join him for breakfast. . . .
But there her suitcases stood by the door, packed and ready to go. The last few days blurred in her mind, partly due to those little yellow pills Dr. Hartley had prescribed and partly because she didn’t want to face the truth. She clenched her teeth and forced herself to remember yesterday. The funeral at the stone church. The foggy cemetery on the hill. The three smooth gravestones, two old . . . one new. Grandpa was dead. She tried to convince herself with blunt cruelty. And today Lola would take her back—back to New York and crummy Camp Wannatonka. Her life was over. Everything she’d hoped for had died with Grandpa.
She wandered down the deserted hallway, her bare feet silent on the polished wood floor. The house felt sad . . . all of its family were dead. Even she felt dead. At the end of the hall, she leaned her head against the door with a hollow thud. End of the line. Again and again she bumped her head against the closed door. Maybe she could pound out the pain inside her heart. Her tears had dried up long ago. Finally the door gave in to her buffeting and lurched open, and she stumbled headfirst into what she’d assumed was merely a closet. Instead, it was a steep, narrow stairway that led up. As if in a trance, she followed the stairs that led to a closed door at the top.
The tarnished brass knob squeaked when she turned it, and Allison entered a small, round room. This would be the turret room. She’d never been up here before. She looked around without any real interest. Most of the furniture was draped in white dust cloths, and stacks of dusty paintings and empty canvases lined the walls. This must’ve been my father’s room, she thought with only a faint trace of curiosity.
She
absently browsed through the room’s contents, unveiling furniture and examining unfinished seascapes and sketches. She held a small painting of the Jenson Lighthouse in her hands. It looked very real. He’d been a good artist, but where had it gotten him?
“Why have you all left me?” she screamed. She threw the unfinished painting to the floor, then swooped up a sketch pad and hurled it across the room. In a rage, she attacked the desk, scattering pens and paper, then yanked drawers out one by one and flung them to the floor. The last drawer stuck. She jerked and tugged and finally dropped to the floor in complete hopeless frustration.
Still clinging to the stubborn drawer, she sobbed again and again, “I wish I were dead, too! I wish I were dead, too!”
At last her tears subsided, and she wiped her face with her dusty hands. Something wedged in the drawer caught her eye, and she slid her hand down to dislodge an old plush box. It was identical to Marsha’s. She opened it and the familiar, haunting strains of Swan Lake escaped. Inside the box nested dozens of letters, folded flat and smooth and tied with a ribbon. All were addressed to Mercury O’Brian, and they were all from Allison’s father, James O’Brian. She opened the one on top.
December 16, 1932
Dear Mother,
This isn’t much of a Christmas present, but you know how it goes with us poor struggling artists. To be honest, I found it at the five-and-dime, but I know how you love Swan Lake—it reminded me of you. I hope you have a Merry Christmas. I only wish I could be there. It’s going well here. I’ve got six paintings showing in a very elite gallery on Fifth Avenue. Hopefully one will sell any day now. I haven’t heard from Grace for months. Do you think she gave up on me? I guess I can’t blame her . . . she deserves better. I did meet an interesting girl last week at the gallery. Her name is Marsha. She’s an actress and very beautiful but not my Grace. . . .
All my love,
James
Allison quickly opened another.
February 19, 1933
Dear Mother,
I know this will shock you. Frankly it even shocks me. I don’t know what got into me. Maybe I was so overcome due to the first sale of a painting. Maybe I was enchanted.
The fact of the matter is, I married Marsha last weekend. We just drove over to Jersey and tied the knot. I hope you’ll forgive me for not letting you see her first. I want to drive out next summer and let you meet her. She’s quite a gal.
All my love,
James
Allison considered his words. It didn’t sound like he even loved Marsha. Why did he marry her? Was it just because he thought he’d lost Grace? She quickly opened another letter in the stack and sucked in her breath. It was dated on her birthday.
January 24, 1934
Dear Mother,
Congratulations, Grandmother! (I can’t imagine you as a grandmother. You’re too pretty.) Today we had a baby girl, Allison Mercury O’Brian, seven pounds, two ounces. (Marsha said I misspelled Allison, but I like it with two l’s.) She’s all red and wrinkly, but when I saw her for the first time I fell in love. I held her for a couple of hours before the nurses caught on and snatched her away. Marsha’s father helped me to get a job with National Insurance of New York. Since I’m a daddy now, I’ve decided to put away the paint box and do the nine-to-five routine like the rest of the civilized world. Marsha isn’t too thrilled about being a mother. I thought she’d be happy, but her career is just picking up. Anyway, your granddaughter is a sweetie. Please ask Father to write . . . he never answers my letters.
All my love,
James
The next few letters were short and dreary. Her father, obviously trapped in a sour marriage, tried to keep Marsha happy. But all she cared about was her career. He complained about his in-laws, who’d practically stolen his child, but his hands seemed tied. She opened the next letter.
December 11, 1941
Dear Mother,
This is my blackest month. I hate to worry you, but our correspondence has been my only comfort. Just two days after the devastating news of Pearl Harbor, I received a bombshell of my own. I’ve been accused of embezzlement in the insurance corporation. What a cruel joke! I barely have two coins to rub together and my “wife” makes more than me. That brings me to another subject. We’re separated now. I don’t want a divorce, if only for the sake of Allison. My mother-in-law never lets me see her as it is. I know her excuses are mostly lies, and I strongly suspect she may be behind this whole embezzlement scheme. If I can get the evidence I need, it will clear my name and possibly win Allison back to me. If not, I may just join the army and throw myself full force into the war effort. If you can think of anything to help dear Allison, please do it.
All my love,
James
The next letters were written on V-mail, the kind servicemen used during the war. The one she held in her hands was dated in June of 1942.
Dear Mother,
Your idea about having Allison visit is just super. I only hope you can swing it. Mrs. Madison can be about as friendly as a Hun. But if anyone can sweet-talk her, it’s you. Good luck! I’ve written Marsha several times, but all I’ve received is a card with an autographed pinup photo. The guys don’t believe she’s really my wife. She’s quite a hit these days. I’m hoping she’ll get Hollywood out of her system after the war and want to be a mother to Allison and a wife to me. The battlefield can really change a guy’s outlook.
All my love,
James
Allison’s heart ached for the lonely G.I. on the battlefront, longing for his sweetheart and not knowing his days were numbered. The next letter remained unopened. She felt certain it must’ve come after Grandmother’s death. It was dated in September, and it was depressing and gloomy and almost too painful to read.
Dear Mother,
You’ve been my one bright and shining light through this mess, and I thank you for it. If I never make it out of here alive, I won’t be sorry. My only regrets are the way I’ve disappointed you and Father, and not being able to be a daddy to Allison. The divorce is final. . . . Marsha has custody of the child she never wanted. My reputation remains in ruins, as you and Father have been made painfully aware. I heard Grace married a wonderful man. I’m happy for her. If only I hadn’t been such a fool. No second chances for me, though. . . .
All my love,
James
Life was black for him then. Just like it is for me now, Allison thought. She knew her father had died the following month. It had been carved into her memory—October 1942.
Yet there were still some letters in Grandmother’s box. She pulled out the last three, all unopened. She quickly scanned them and her heart pounded in her ears. They were all from overseas—and they were all from James O’Brian! The first two described more horrors of war. One dated December 1943—the next, February 1944. She opened the last, dated in November 1944. How could this be? She read it in wonder.
Dear Mother,
I don’t blame you for not writing, though it’s not like you. I’m in an army hospital in England. Don’t be alarmed. I’m okay, just a little beat up. They’ll be shipping me home as soon as I’m able. I’ve begged them to let me stay and return to the front, but they say I’m unfit. Unfit to be killed? Interesting. But I must admit it will be nice to see you. I want to come home to Oregon first. I only hope Father will speak to me again and allow me to stay at least until I recover. All I need is peace and quiet and a place to paint.
All my love,
James
“He’s not dead!” Allison gasped. “He’s not dead!” She rose from the rubble on the floor and stretched her cramped legs. Still in her nightgown, she shivered as she paced the room. “Where can he be?” she asked the empty room. “Where is he now?” She felt as if she stood on the abyss in her dream, about to tumble into a pit of insanity. She drew open the dusty drapes to reveal a band of windows that encased the room. Beyond them, the most spectacular view from the house was exposed—every direction for as far as
the eye could see. Heavy black clouds piled up on the ocean, and the sky had an odd greenish cast.
Out the north window stood the Jenson Light, its beam shining proudly. Perhaps the only remnant of stability left to this family.
“The mad lighthouse keeper!” she exclaimed. “Grandpa—the rowboat—he was on his way to the lighthouse!”
Allison dashed down the narrow staircase and into her room. She jerked on warm clothes right over her nightgown and tore down the stairs.
The sky was dark and angry, and the waves had sharp whitecaps. She didn’t check the tide—it made no difference. The little boat clanked hard against the dock as it was pitched by the waves. She struggled to untie it and began to row for the lighthouse. She felt Grandpa in the oars. His hands had grasped them only a few nights ago, but his failing heart had aborted his mission. She would finish it now.
The storm came on fast. Raindrops like tiny daggers were driven by the wind and pierced her face. The waves grew tall and menacing. She fixed her eyes on the light and rowed furiously toward it. As the boat dove deep into the well of each wave, the lighthouse vanished, and she wondered if she’d be devoured by the sea. It didn’t matter, though, for she felt no fear—only a driving force to find her father.
At last Allison saw the light towering directly overhead. The next instant the rowboat smashed onto the rocks, and the force of the impact thrust her into the pounding surf. She kicked and fought to cling to the rocks and extract herself from the ocean’s mighty grip. The boat was gone.
The jagged rocks cut into her hands like knives as she struggled to crawl up. Even on the flat shore of the island, huge, fierce breakers beat down upon her and pummeled her body into the ground. She flattened herself on the rocks near the lighthouse, clinging for life. God, help me, she cried.
When she finally reached the shelter of the lighthouse, an immense wave washed over the whole island and tried to sweep her away. She clung to the wet surface of the building, digging in with her fingernails until the wave died down, then she worked her way around to the door, leaving a trail of blood from her own hands along the white walls.
Allison O'Brian on Her Own Page 15
