Allison O'Brian on Her Own

by Melody Carlson

  The heavy wooden door was bolted tight. Desperate, she pounded and yelled with the last of her strength, but her screams were swallowed by the wailing storm. A large brass ring served as a door pull, and she wrapped her fingers around its encrusted surface.

  The door faced east, slightly protected from the full force of the storm. Pounding and screaming were pointless. She was a fool—just like her father. He probably wasn’t even here. With bitter irony she figured there probably was a mad lighthouse keeper and perhaps her father really was dead. Allison’s head reeled, and her grip on the ring loosened as she slipped into oblivion.

  She was a little girl again, hiding under Nanny Jane’s crisp white apron, and the light shone through and smelled as sweet as sunshine. But something was tickling her nose. Allison awoke wrapped in a scratchy woolen quilt with a fat tortoiseshell cat snuggled up next to her face. A fire burned in a potbellied stove, and an odd smell filled the air. Turpentine?

  Sitting across from her—waiting expectantly—was a man who could have passed for Vincent VanGogh, or perhaps her father. His auburn hair and beard stuck out in wild woolly tufts, and his nose had a streak of black across it.

  “Here.” He held a mug of tea in front of her. “Don’t try to talk yet. Just drink this.” She obeyed, not daring to take her eyes off of him lest he disappear—like a mirage. His brow furrowed deeply as he stared at her with equal intensity.

  “I can’t take it any longer!” The words exploded from his mouth, and Allison drew back in fear. He stood for a moment, paced back and forth like a caged lion, and continued, “Could you—is it possible? Are you my daughter? Are you my Allison Mercury? Or have I completely lost my senses as they all claim?”

  Allison broke into a tiny smile. “No, you’re not mad. I am Allison . . . and I think you’re my father.”

  With a massive sigh, he rushed to her and swooped her up as if she were a small child. As he held her, Allison felt the strength in his arms and knew she was in good hands.

  “What could have possessed you to pull such a stunt?” he asked suddenly, holding her at arm’s length. “What were you thinking to take a boat out in this weather? You could have been killed.” He placed her gently back in the chair and tucked the blanket around her. Then he ran his fingers through his untamed hair and continued in a calmer voice. “I’m sorry. . . . I’m not angry with you. I just can’t understand what you were thinking. If it hadn’t been for Picasso”—he pointed at the cat—”I probably never would’ve found you.”

  Allison stroked the cat now purring contentedly in her lap. She didn’t know what to say. Instead, she just stared as her father rubbed his whiskers and paced across the tiny room, talking as he went.

  “Picasso slipped out right before the storm and I was watching for him, but instead I found a half-drowned maiden on my doorstep. It isn’t that I’m not delighted to see you, Allison. I’m overcome with joy. But you took such a risk! What if—” He stared at her in wonder.

  “It’s a long story, Dad,” she said slowly with a sigh. It felt good to call him Dad. She watched him retrieve a pipe from a crude wooden shelf above the wood stove. He shook it out and refilled it with fresh tobacco. Taking his time, he packed it carefully. He glanced out at the storm still raging.

  “We’ve got all the time in the world.” He lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair, never moving his gaze from her.

  Allison looked down at Picasso and wondered where she should begin. She told him about her childhood and Nanny Jane.

  “Well, I thank God for dear Mrs. McAllister,” James said. “She wrote me occasionally and told me how you were doing. As badly as I wanted you with me, I knew you were better off with her than with Marsha—I’m sorry to tell you that, Allison.”

  She nodded. She above anyone else understood this. Then she told him about boarding school and Patricia and Miss Snyder, explaining the summer camp dilemma and her escape across the country. When she got to the part about Grandpa, her voice broke into sobs and her father’s face paled.

  “I loved him so much. Why did he have to die?” She looked up to see her father’s face contorted in pain as silent tears slid down his cheeks. Then he buried his head in his hands and sobbed. Allison’s pain seemed to diminish slightly as she tried to comfort her father. She stood by his side and placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “He said he forgives you, Dad,” she said softly.

  He looked at her with a creased brow and shook his head in disbelief. “Really? He did?”

  She shook him gently for emphasis. “In the hospital—those were his last words.” She sunk into the chair, weak and fatigued from her fight against the storm. She sipped her lukewarm tea. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. I found a letter at Marsha’s. It was written by some guy . . . Hardwick. It was meant to clear your name about the embezzlement scandal, I guess. I suppose Marsha never sent it to you.”

  He stood and his eyes blazed. “I should have known!”

  “So is that why you have been hiding out here? Why everyone thought you were dead? Even me?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Allison. But there just didn’t seem to be any other way. It was your grandfather’s idea at first. I got pretty shot up in the war. And after I was released from the hospital, I came back home to recover. But I still had that crazy embezzlement charge over my head, and he thought I should come out here to stay until I figured out a way to prove my innocence and clear my name. I came to like it out here. I started painting, and it helped me to forget the war and the pain of a failed marriage—and the loss of you.”

  “So you were just going to stay here forever?” Allison asked. “Would I have ever gotten to know you?”

  James shook his head. “Believe me, I planned and dreamed about how I would get you back. But eventually I began to wonder if my plans were just selfish. I assumed you had a great life and didn’t need me butting in. You had wealthy grandparents, a wonderful nanny, and a movie star for a mother. What could I give you? Besides, I figured that they had all poisoned your mind against me, and if I tried to get you back, I would probably end up in prison. I finally just gave up.”

  “I see your point,” Allison muttered. “It’s just so unfair. I can’t believe Marsha kept us apart all this time—and kept that letter from you.”

  “It’s not all Marsha’s fault. Her mother had her very well trained.” He looked at Allison apologetically. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk about your mother and your grandmother like that. I have made it my life goal to forgive them both, but God has to help me more than most. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if Marsha’s mother had told her to burn that letter.”

  “We can be glad that she didn’t burn it, because when I showed it to Grandpa, he realized you were innocent. I think that’s why he tried to take out the rowboat—to come here and tell you. I think he figured with that letter, you might be able to help me—oh, I almost forgot! Marsha’s lawyer wired that I must return. In fact, Lola is coming out here to pick me up.” She smiled faintly, imagining Lola’s face to find her gone.

  “Over my dead body!” He stood tall, feet straddled and arms folded across his chest—a formidable foe.

  Allison sighed. She felt safe and at home. Tiny as the lighthouse might be, she’d be content to stay as long as her father was there. “We could just hide out here in the lighthouse,” she suggested.

  He paced once again and puffed on his pipe. The smoke smelled sweet, almost fruity—nothing like Stanley’s stale cigars. His old gray woolen shirt was a collage of multicolored paint splotches. It resembled some modern art Allison had seen in a city gallery once. She glanced around the room and noticed the stacks of finished paintings that lined the walls. There were seascapes, fishing boats, lighthouses, still lifes, and even some impressionistic works. It was obvious he’d made good use of his time during those seemingly wasted years.

  “No, I don’t think we’ll continue to be fugitives, Allison. Not that I’d mind so much, but think about George and Muriel.
They’ll be worried sick—”

  “And there’s Grace and the Amberwells,” Allison exclaimed. “I almost forgot.”

  “Grace? Amberwells?” her father questioned with a puzzled expression. Allison’s eyes lit up in remembrance of Grace’s story about the lost romance.

  “Yes, Grace. She happens to be one of the nicest women I’ve ever met. And the Amberwells are the orphans she brought back from England. There’s Heather and Winston and Andrew—”

  “But what about Grace?”

  “Well, she lives on the other side of the bluff with these kids. And she’s been a good friend to me. She even told me all about her first sweetheart—how she believed in him and waited . . .” James slumped into his chair with his head bowed down. She felt guilty for tormenting him so, but she was relieved to see that he still cared.

  “And did she tell you what a fool I was?”

  “Well, speaking from experience, it seems to run in our family,” Allison chided in an attempt at lightness.

  “So it’s Grace Amberwell now. How is her husband?”

  “No, her name’s not Amberwell. Her husband was shot down over France right after they were married. Then she adopted the Amberwell children because their parents died in the London bombings. It’s kind of a long story, but if I were you, I wouldn’t waste any time. Reverend Simmons is awfully nice, and he’s been making sheep’s eyes at Grace.”

  James shook his head slowly and stared at Allison as if she were delirious. “You mentioned that letter—do you still have it?”

  “I gave it to Grandpa.” She looked down at Picasso and traced her finger over the crazy patterns of his odd-colored coat. “It’s probably still on his desk. He was going to send it to his lawyer—”

  “Just what I was thinking. That letter will most likely verify my innocence—maybe I can even use it to force Marsha into relinquishing your custody.” He pulled back a wooden shutter and peered out the thick glass of the tiny porthole window. “Still awful out there—worst squall I’ve seen in some time. Good thing this lighthouse is built like a rock. I’ve got some stew on the stove, and you look like you could use some.”

  Allison nodded, feeling hungry for the first time in days. She glanced at her wrist. Her hands were cut and bruised, and her watch face was smashed. “What time is it?”

  “Half past five,” he answered. “You slept most of the day.” He handed her a heaping bowl of stew. “There’s no way we’ll make it out tonight. For once I almost wish I had a telephone or shortwave. I’ve always liked my isolation here. It’s like a giant cloak of protection. And between you and me, I used to fuel those mad lighthouse keeper stories. If anyone came snooping around in a boat, I’d pull a stocking cap on my head and dash out with paint on my face and screech and howl at them.” He chuckled. “It was a good form of entertainment.”

  “How long have you been here?” Allison asked, blowing on a spoonful of stew.

  “Well, it was winter of ‘44 when I came home. I really took your grandfather by surprise. He’d never even opened my letters after Mother died. He just stashed them away. You see, he blamed me for Mother’s death. Maybe he was partly right. . . .”

  Allison shook her head, but he continued.

  “I was already a mess, and to find out about her was almost more than I could bear. My father had already been having trouble with the government lighthouse keeper—drinking and not keeping the light running right. So he got permission to sack him and put me in as a temporary replacement. It was actually kind of interesting during the war. I used to have to watch for Japanese aircraft and ships and subs. I had a shortwave back then. But temporary soon became permanent, and this is home for me now. George is the only person besides your grandfather who knows I’m here. He brings me supplies every Sunday, weather permitting.

  “Now I think of all the years I’ve wasted—all because of that trumped-up embezzlement charge. If only I’d known about that letter!” He slammed his fist onto the table with such force, his empty cup crashed to the floor. “I’m sorry, Allison. It’s just so frustrating.”

  “I understand. When I think of the lost years I didn’t even know I had a father or a grandpa . . . I guess I should just be thankful to have known Grandpa for the short time I did.” She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “Without Grandpa, I wouldn’t have found you.”

  His smile lit up his face and warmed her heart. “As for you, my dear Allison, you need some sleep. You’ve been through a rough week. Finish up that stew, and then we’ll get you off to bed.”

  As much as she wanted to stay up and talk, she couldn’t argue. Her body cried for rest.

  James tucked her into the narrow bunk built right into the thick plastered wall. He pulled the woolly blankets up to her chin and leaned over to kiss her good-night. Tears of happiness filled her eyes, and his scratchy whiskers didn’t bother her a bit.

  “Where will you sleep?” she asked groggily.

  “Don’t you worry about me. I’m too worked up to sleep and I’ve got a lot to do. Just sleep, dear Allison,” he whispered as he turned down the kerosene wick.

  The smell of oatmeal roused her senses, and Allison opened her eyes to see the sun shining brightly through the salt-encrusted porthole window. A heaping bowl of oatmeal sat on a roughhewn table with a mug of tea beside it. Her clothes were cleaned and dried, and her torn trouser knees had been mended. She hungrily devoured the oatmeal and tea, but where was her father?

  She glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall—it was almost noon. How in the world did she sleep so long? Her body felt stiff and sore. Ugly bruises and scrapes covered her arms and legs. She dressed slowly. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, she thought. But for the first time in the last few days her heart felt lighter.

  She made her way down to the rocks, where she saw a neatly attired man stacking boxes beside a large rowboat. A second glance told her it was her father.

  “What happened to your beard?” she asked, studying his handsome, clean-shaven face in amazement. His hair was combed and trimmed and he looked ten years younger. He still had that rugged outdoorsman look, only now in a more dignified way. “You look great, Dad!”

  “Thanks. It’s terrific to hear you call me Dad. I’m almost ready to go—how about you? Did you eat your mush and find everything you need?”

  Allison nodded as she slowly eased her aching body into the boat. She looked back up at the lighthouse, taking in each detail. “I always wanted to see this place close up,” she remarked. The sky was clear blue and the ocean remarkably calm after yesterday’s squall. Little waves lapped pleasantly on the rocks, making a happy, peaceful sound.

  James glided the boat through the inlet. Allison admired his long, even strokes, and the boat sliced swiftly through the gently rolling waves.

  “Hey, there’s someone on the dock!” Allison exclaimed. She peered hard. “It’s Andrew!”

  She waved both arms frantically. As they drew closer, Andrew recognized her and he leaped up and down, waving and yelling at the top of his lungs. Before James could even dock the boat, Andrew reached over and pulled Allison out and hugged her hard.

  “We thought you’d drowned! I found bits of the rowboat washed up—the Coast Guard’s coming to search! And your mother’s secretary has been out here looking for you. We gotta tell the folks!”

  “Slow down, Andrew. Come meet my father, James O’Brian!” Andrew’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Just then the others came running down the dock road.

  “What is it, Andrew?” Grace screamed. “Did you find her?” Heather clung to Grace’s arm, and the others followed on their heels.

  Allison stepped into full view and waved. “I’m okay,” she cried, running to meet them. “I’m so sorry I scared you all.” She embraced Grace and Heather. Muriel, George, and Winston quickly joined the huddle. Everyone was laughing and crying all at once. Muriel even scolded Allison, and they all asked dozens of questions.

  “I’ll explain everything,” A
llison said. Then she added loud enough to get their attention, “But I had to find my dad!” Everyone ceased talking and looked at Allison in puzzlement. Suddenly, Grace’s face grew deathly pale, and Allison watched her look toward Andrew still on the dock. James was next to him, tying up the boat.

  “Jamie? No, it can’t be!” shrieked Muriel. She clutched George’s sleeve and shook her head in disbelief. But George nodded and smiled, wrapping his short arms around her.

  “Your father is alive?” Heather questioned. “That’s wonderful, Allison!” The two girls hugged in delight.

  “I know I’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” James began as he joined the bewildered crowd and exchanged hugs and greetings, “if you’ll give me time. Let’s all go up to the house and I’ll tell you about it. I also have a plan for keeping Allison with us—always.”

  George carefully guided the joyous yet stunned Muriel up the hill, and Andrew slung Winston over his shoulder. The two whooped and galloped toward the house. Allison squeezed Heather’s hand as she held her breath and watched her father standing humbly before Grace.

  “Grace, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am about everything that’s passed between us. I’ve been a first-class fool, that’s for sure. I’m just hoping somehow you’ll find room in your heart to forgive me.” He dropped his head, and Allison ached for him.

  “Oh, James, you always did have the Irish gift of the Blarney, didn’t you?” He looked up in surprise, and Grace smiled and reached out to firmly clasp his hand. Her face regained its color with even the faint glow of a blush.

  Allison rushed over and vigorously hugged them both.

  “Well, Dad,” she said. “Seems you and I have taken the long way home.”

  “Yes,” James replied, giving her another hug. “But it’s sure great to be back.”

  To Carol, Robin, and Renee,

  with love.