by Susan Haught
She showered, the force of the water cleansing her thoughts. The confusion began to clear. Returning to the house by the pond was disconcerting and produced a fresh wave of dread, but going back seemed inevitable. What she really wanted to do was change her ticket and go home. Run. To escape the past—or was the past her present? Her future? Juggling the idea, she didn’t care which as long as it was as far away from here as possible.
But first, she had to make one more trip down Nightshade Path.
Ambrose was expecting her. Of that, she was sure.
Heavy clouds clothed the morning sky, yet the passageway through the trees seemed less ominous, partly due to the daylight, mostly because more pressing issues overshadowed her thoughts. She parked the Tahoe and walked the short distance to the steps, the satchel tucked securely under her arm.
Ambrose met her at the door. The sunless sky smothered the prism’s rainbows, and the pillows beneath his eyes had darkened. The wind chimes remained languid.
“You decided to return, Miss Ryleigh.” The old man’s greeting matched the overcast sky.
“You knew I would.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, his voice a whisper. “You were born with your father’s spirit and his insatiable curiosity. Your return was inevitable.” He motioned for her to come in.
Ryleigh followed him through the screened porch, wooden planks repeating their welcoming groan. Ambrose sank heavier into his limp, and the night’s sharp edge had carved the lines deeper into sallow skin. Inside, he waved for her to be seated. She did so without hesitation.
“Would I be correct in assuming sleep did not come easy?” Ambrose handed her a fresh mug of coffee.
“I took a couple of sleeping pills. It helped.” She looked away to bury the lie. “You?”
“I did not sleep well either,” he said, easing himself to the sofa. “Though much time has passed, I had not fully prepared to relive those events.”
“You said you weren’t there, yet you told the story as if you were.”
“That is neither here nor there.”
She raised her hands in concession. “There’s more to the story, so I suggest we get started. What happened after Ryan—my father—died?” The words rolled awkwardly from her mouth, unable to wrap her feelings around calling a complete stranger her father.
Ambrose fixed her with a searching gaze. “Pieces of the story remain untold, Miss Ryleigh. Some are significant. Some are not.”
“I need to know.” She squared her shoulders and her eyes narrowed. “Everything.”
“As you wish.” He rubbed both hands hard against his thighs, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Before the medics took Ryan’s body, Ben took the journal—the one you now have in your possession—and as promised, gave it to your mother. He also ripped the Screaming Eagles patch from his shoulder and tore a button from his shirt. Those you also have in your possession. During the Vietnam campaign, soldiers wore one dog tag around their neck, the other tied to their boots in case of—” Ambrose stammered, abruptly looking away. “Ben cut Ryan’s laces and retrieved it. His body would be shipped to his parents in St. Louis and your mother would never see him again. He wanted her to have something of Ryan’s, besides you of course, to hold onto in order to one day let go.”
“I didn’t find dog tags in Mom’s things.”
“It is here.”
“Why do you have it?”
“Certain things were too painful for her to keep, though she clung to them feverishly. The dog tag she left with me. It belongs to you now.”
Pain skewed his face. The old man leaned heavily on the arm of the sofa. Rising slowly, he limped toward the closed door of an adjacent room that seemed to have been added to the house as an afterthought. Ambrose opened it enough to slip by, shadows rippling beyond the doorway, returned, and handed her a small wooden box.
As if seeking permission, she caught his eye. He nodded. With no locking mechanism, the lid lifted easily, the faint tang of cigar tobacco rising from the inside. The dog tag jingled on its ball chain as she raised it from atop a stack of envelopes. Her fingers traced the letters of his name, LEIGHMAN RYAN MICHAEL and his service number. She paused on A POS, and then skimmed over PROTESTANT.
“Type A positive,” she said aloud, but didn’t look up. “Same as mine.”
A remnant of his life she held in her hand, another coursed through her body. Her fingers lingered on the indentations, cold and lifeless, the name of a man she didn’t know, but whose blood flowed through her veins. A vague smile pulled at the corners of her mouth and she closed her hand around the metal. The impressions—hard to absorb yet palpably real—left her fingers and sneaked into a corner of her heart. An odd sensation flowed through her as if her blood had suddenly warmed.
“Are there any other pictures of him, Ambrose?”
“None that I possess. But trust me when I say you favor him, as does your son.” The old man’s face softened, the gleam in his eyes rekindled. “Your amazing smile, the soft dimple in your left cheek, and those exquisite blue-green eyes—”
“—the color of the inside of an ocean wave.”
“Always.” Ambrose hesitated, raking a bony hand through a thick crop of unruly white hair. “What pictures remained went to Michael and Allison Leighman, Ryan’s parents, who are buried in St. Louis alongside their son.”
“Grandparents. Something else Mom failed to mention.”
“Ah, yes,” he began. “Ryan never had the chance to tell them about you. They knew of Eleanor, but assumed she simply fled when Ryan left for the war, unaware she was carrying their grandchild. Ryan wanted to keep it quiet until the three of you were together. And of course, upon his death, Ben took over the responsibility.
“Your mother closed herself to everyone but you after Ryan’s death. You were her entire world. I was but a shadow. Not until Ben returned did she begin to pull herself out of the darkness.”
“Daddy? When did he come back?”
“Late January 1968. You were four months old. Ben loved you both and had no reservations about keeping his promise to Ryan. He knew Eleanor would never love him the way she loved Ryan, but it made no difference. He was honoring a promise he made to a dying man and surrendering to his feelings for your mother and you. He was ardently in love with your mother and he adored his baby daughter. He was content.”
She pinched her eyebrows.
“Ah, yes, Miss Ryleigh, there was never a doubt in Ben’s heart you were his daughter from that day forward. He was by any definition, your father.”
“But my birth certificate. And the marriage license—the dates, everything is fake.”
“I am considered an expert at what I do. Abstract identities. Alternate worlds. Even providing that which does not exist. I shall not exhaust you with details, but the documents were created exactly as specified.”
“You’re kind of creepy, you know that?”
A boisterous laugh exposed a bank of crooked teeth. “Ah, yes, a distinct entitlement, indeed. And speaking of documents, you will need to take some of those in your box to an attorney.”
“Why?”
“Ryan left several government bonds for your mother. She chose not to take the money, instead transferring the documents to you. Rest assured, everything is quite legal.”
“Aren’t you an attorney? Can’t you take care of what I need?”
“Ah, yes. I have worn many hats throughout time, but that part of me died when the need no longer existed. However, two things remain which I must tell you. The first concerns your name.”
“Great. I suppose it’s fake, too.”
“The name on the dog tag.”
Unaware she had been clutching it tightly in her hand, she opened her fist.
“Look at your father’s first name. The first two letters.”
She shot him a puzzled look.
He pointed to the tag. “Now the first half of your father’s last name.”
“Ry-Leigh.” It crossed h
er lips as a whisper. “My name is his name.”
“Ah, yes, indeed. Eleanor chose this so not only would she see Ryan reflected in your beautiful blue-green eyes, but she would hear the sweet sound of his name whenever someone spoke yours.”
Ambrose rose slowly and gazed out the window. Banks of heavy, gray clouds threatened snow as morning wore on. “It looks as though inclement weather is settling in, Miss Ryleigh. I best conclude this story so you may return to the Inn.”
“Snow?”
“The forecast merely calls for a dusting.” His mustache curled around a healthy grin. “However, I believe my guess would be as reliable as any weatherman.” The silver-haired man bent to open the woodstove. With a lonely groan, the door gaped wide, and he placed a log atop the embers. “A small fire is a must for cold days and bones as cantankerous as mine.” He turned with his back inches from the stove and laced his fingers behind him.
“Ambrose,” Ryleigh began, emerging from a collage of conflicting thoughts. “Please, tell me more about the journal. Ryan, my father—I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to saying that—wrote the poems for my mother?” She opened the satchel and removed the worn journal. Her hand lingered over the dark stain. An odd sensation tickled her stomach.
“He did, indeed. He was gifted. He saw things others did not.”
“I think I understand.”
“Of course you do. You are of his loins. His heart beats as yours and the words flowed from him as naturally as his breath.” Ambrose’s eyes drifted beyond a long nose, one eye—the right—seemed to move a fraction slower. “Much as you do—your inheritance and future promise, if you will.”
Ryleigh traced the stain with her thumb, the pebbled leather familiar, yet as anomalous as her past.
“The words of your father abound with fear and death, beauty, and unending love. And darkness. The Screaming Eagles’ motto is ‘Rendezvous With Destiny.’ Ryan believed fate followed him through the jungles of Vietnam. He wrote vividly of being in the clutches of something he felt but could not see. His destiny. Do you remember what is written on the back of the photograph?”
Recognition lit up her face. “‘Today this may be nothing, but tomorrow it may be all that is left.’ He knew, didn’t he?”
“A sixth sense, perhaps. Some are gifted that way.”
Ryleigh shook her head slowly. “I’d call it a curse.”
“I think you are, indeed, quite right.” His right leg dragged the floor as he crossed the room to the sofa.
“Ambrose,” she said, tilting her head, “the words in the journal seem so familiar.”
“Ah, yes. As they should,” he said, his voice rising. “One thing Ben insisted was you grew up knowing your father’s words.”
The sullen mask fused to her expression melted. The recollection felt like coming home, finding one spot of comfort in a maze of confusion. “This is the book Daddy read to me, wasn’t it?”
Ambrose beamed. “It is, indeed.”
“I loved this book.” She clutched it to her chest. “I remember crawling into his lap at bedtime. He smelled of soap and warm blankets and summer, and he’d read until I fell asleep,” she said, reflectively. “The words were so vivid and soothing. I felt safe curled in his arms.”
“Ah, yes. He loved you so, Miss Ryleigh, and he wanted you to know your father. But when Ben died, your mother hid the book. His words were her memories, and I believe they were simply too painful for her to read.”
“The stain.” She pressed her hand over the darkened leather. “This is his blood, isn’t it?”
“I beg to differ. It is your father’s love. Do you remember where he kept it?”
Lowering her face, she nodded. “Near his heart.” She traced the stain with her fingers. “The stain is his blood—love infused in the leather.”
Ambrose stood sentinel, watching her.
Overwhelmed and not quite sure it was permissible to love another as her father, yet knowing he was a part of her, a part of who she was, a frown formed on her brow. Her heart ached for what she had gained and ultimately lost at the hands of fate.
“There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” she said. “There’s one poem in here that doesn’t make sense.” Raising her eyes to meet the old man’s, she opened the journal, the pages parting automatically where a frayed ribbon marked the haunting poem.
“Ah,” Ambrose said as he lowered his eyes. “‘Lost.’ Is it not?”
“How’d you know?”
“It is the last missing piece to your puzzle, Miss Ryleigh. Come. We must take a drive before the skies open and spill their tears. I do not believe my leg will handle much cold today. We shall take the old Jeep.”
Ryleigh replaced the journal in the satchel and fastened her jacket.
Ambrose stretched leather gloves over his knotted fingers, buttoned his coat against the weather, and hooked his walking stick over his arm.
“She is an antique I’m afraid, but she gets around a bit better than I do,” he said, showing her out.
“Who?”
“This old Jeep,” he said. “She is old, but in superb shape, unlike her owner I assure you.”
She stepped into the vintage Jeep. “It’s nice.”
“Resurrected her from extinction myself. Ostrich leather. Exquisite.”
“Nothing will surprise me about you, Ambrose. And if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”
“Some questions have no sufficient answers. My age is of no consequence. I am as young and as old as love itself. Love is ageless. And true love is priceless.”
A million miles of memories were etched into the roadmap of the old man’s face. But where had they come from? And where did they lead? She smiled. Maybe he was right. Some questions have no sufficient answers.
The Jeep purred as Ambrose drove to the rear of the house and proceeded down a road concealed from every direction.
Ryleigh looked around. “This isn’t the way out.”
“My path takes a new direction quite frequently.”
“Okay, I have another question. The lights the other night. When you took a walk, I saw tiny pinpricks of light. It made me think of Gandalf.”
“Ah, yes. The remarkable wizard in The Lord of the Rings.” Ambrose chuckled. “Yes, I supposed it would.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“I am not.”
“Some questions have no sufficient answers,” they chimed in unison.
She leaned her head against the window. Random thoughts swirled in her head. She had acquired a piece of her past, of who she was, but when would she allow herself to truly embrace the knowledge? Ben was the one who read to her, whose lap she crawled into before bedtime, and who protected her from monsters under her bed. She had danced with him, invited him to tea parties and he had tucked her in at night. And she had called him Daddy.
“I fear you are contemplating things you should not,” Ambrose said, breaking the silence.
“You aren’t only creepy sometimes, Ambrose. You can be so convoluted.”
“Ah, yes, a bit twisted, indeed.” He nodded. “I am confident you will make sense of this story, make peace with your past and allow it to dictate your future. Please never doubt Ryan is your blood, but Ben was your father in the truest sense of the word. Without Ben, the words of your father would have remained silent.”
Very little traffic milled about the village. They followed Ballston Avenue for a short distance and then turned into a dirt drive. The iron gates were swung wide and twin stone pillars flanked each side. The Village Cemetery stood silent, empty, except for the host of occupants whose brief histories were etched in stone markers.
“Should I bother asking why we are visiting a cemetery?”
“Patience, Miss Ryleigh.”
The road wound through fir and maple trees, where generations of Ballston Spa occupants were laid to rest. Near the rear of the boundary, Ambrose cut the engine. “Our destination.” He removed a small sack from the
seat.
Thick, heavy clouds hung low in the air, still and quiet with the muffled feel of impending snow. Icy winds blew in short gusts lifting Ryleigh’s hair and teasing her with the crisp spice of evergreen. Christmas. She blew on her fingers, pulled on her gloves, and then tightened the collar of her jacket. Ambrose leaned heavily into his staff, one footprint leaving a faint impression, the other a shallow furrow where his foot dug into the ground. Not far behind, Ryleigh followed.
She perused the headstones, careful not to step where the caskets rested. Patches of virgin snow covered those in shadow as if thick white blankets had been tucked around their resting place. Surrounded by history, Ryleigh bent to read the marker directly in front of her. An early settler in the 1700s. She envisioned her dressed in Colonial apron and bonnet, peacefully at rest. Another an infant, ten months and seven days old, died in 1832. A baby. Gooseflesh prickled her arms. And then a Major. Killed in battle, perhaps?
Following the path, the dates became more recent, the stones not as weathered. The one to her right a Ballston Spa police chief. A simple yet elegant Christmas wreath stood upright against the stone. Daddy. Her legs went liquid, knowing how it felt to visit your father in a cemetery.
Ambrose had gone ahead. She quickened her step and together they approached a stately maple tree that rose from the edge of a small pond, frozen and lifeless. Ambrose lowered his head and stared quietly at the grave nearest the pond. She followed his eyes to the headstone and her mouth flew open.
“I thought you told me Ryan’s body was taken to St. Louis?”
“He was, indeed,” he said, nodding toward the headstone.
She read it slowly, processing the words. “Ryan Michael Leighman II, September 21, 1967.” She gasped. “My birthday.” She turned to him. “But,” she said with a deliberate pause, “he only lived one day? This can’t be…”
“Ah, yes.” Ambrose opened the sack and removed two pure white roses, and for the first time since they’d met, he placed his arm around her shoulders, as a loving grandfather might. “He is your brother. Your twin.”
