“No. You should pace yourself and build up your strength.” Meg walked beside her, watching carefully in case Grandmother needed help. But the old woman slowly plodded along, her slippers making a swishing sound as she moved across the hardwood floor to her bedroom.
“You were supposed to call me,” cried Rosa as she came running from the kitchen. “Oh, Meggie. Thank goodness you’re there.”
“I’ll help Grandmother to her bed, Rosa. I think she’s due for a rest. Isn’t she doing well, though?”
“Yes, but I do not want her to fall.”
“Don’t you worry, Rosa,” said Grandmother. “I’m just fine.”
It took a while to get Grandmother settled into bed, and when Meg finally pulled the covers up, Grandmother looked exhausted.
“Are you planning on coming to the exhibit tonight, Grandmother?” asked Meg as she adjusted the blinds.
“I don’t know. I think I’ll wait and see how spunky I feel later on.”
“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll be out at the bog today. I’ll have my cell phone if you or Rosa need me for anything.”
“I still can’t get over the idea of those phones with no cords,” said Grandmother sleepily as Meg slipped out.
Meg spent the rest of the day up at the bog. She started weeding the bog that was a level lower than the one they had finished a few days ago. When she quit in the early evening and looked over her work, it didn’t look as if she had made any progress. She sat down on a rock and studied the weedy bogs. Was this a hopeless task? At first she had been driven by the desire to save Grandpa’s bog and preserve Grandmother’s water rights. But what if it couldn’t be done? Perhaps she was like Don Quixote, tilting at windmills.
A breeze swept up from the ocean, and she lifted her gaze to look out over the water. The sun was starting to go down, and a cluster of clouds was huddled at the horizon, catching the last rays of light in brilliant bursts of pink and orange. She stared at the sky as one color shifted into another. If only she had brought her camera. But there was no time to run back down and fetch it and still be able to enjoy this incredible sight.
Suddenly she recalled the song at Sunny’s memorial service yesterday. The Beatles sang about the fool on the hill who lived in his own world, never paying attention to the real world around him. Maybe that song had been for Meg. Maybe she was the fool on the hill.
According to Sunny, that was supposed to be a good thing. Still, Meg wasn’t so sure she wanted to be that fool. Then again, she wasn’t sure that she didn’t. In fact, she didn’t feel very sure about much of anything anymore. All she knew was that she was searching for something, for a place to belong and a purpose for her life, and she hoped that God was leading her. She had prayed a desperate prayer on the beach the other morning, pleading for God to help her. Somehow she had survived the past few days, and she didn’t think that was a coincidence. But her heart still felt like an iron fist was clamped around it, and she knew she still needed, would always need, God’s help.
There among the freshly weeded cranberry plants, Meg knelt and prayed. “God, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m hoping you know. Please show me what to do. Show me how to live. Please help me.…”
The sun had dipped down behind the sea when Meg finally lifted her head. The clouds had turned to mauve and the sky to a dusty shade of periwinkle. Meg rose stiffly to her feet and took in a deep breath. The cool air smelled of sweet musty earth and vegetation, and she felt another tiny flame of hope flicker within her.
She looked out upon the dark ocean where her mother’s ashes had been scattered. “Good-bye, Sunny,” she whispered into the breeze.
She walked slowly down to the house in the dusk. Every bit of her felt tired and worn. All she wanted to do was fall across her feather mattress and sleep and sleep, not caring if she ever woke up. But tonight was Sunny’s exhibit, and Meg would not miss it for anything. She had missed Sunny’s birthday dinner, and who knew how much else. Tonight, she would be there at eight o’clock sharp when Sigfried opened the doors.
Meg made it to the gallery with five minutes to spare. Tom and Erin and the girls were just pulling up as she climbed out of the car, but the gallery looked dark and deserted. A few other cars pulled up, and people stood on the sidewalk, talking uncomfortably in hushed tones. Was something wrong? Where was Sigfried?
Suddenly the gallery burst into life as garlands of tiny white lights came on, shining in all the windows as if it were Christmas. The interior lights began to glow, and Sigfried unlocked the door, turning on the outside light as well. Dressed in a stylish gray suit, he stepped out on the sidewalk and graciously welcomed everyone in. Rich strains of classical music poured out the door and onto the street, and Sunny’s friends entered the gallery with an air of excitement. A linen-covered table was set up in the center of the front room of the gallery, adorned with a huge bouquet of fresh flowers, and flickering candles illuminated bountiful platters of cheese, fruit, bread, and wine.
Under normal circumstances, it would be a tempting feast, but Meg moved woodenly past the table without touching the food. Was Sunny’s goal to simply throw a big party for her friends? If that was the case, perhaps Meg would just make an appearance and then leave—
“Meg,” gasped Erin. She grabbed Meg’s arm and pointed to the back wall of the gallery. “Look at that.”
Meg turned to see a collection of old photos, enlarged and nicely matted, hanging on the far wall of the next room. As she looked more carefully, she realized that they were old pictures of Sunny, Erin, and herself. She walked into the back room, staring at the pictures in wonder. Some looked faintly familiar. Some she couldn’t remember having seen before.
She stared at an old photo of Sunny as a gawky-looking teen wearing a plaid shirt and hip waders. She was pouring a bucket of cranberries into a wagon. And although the photo was black and white, the cranberries had been tinted a bright, sparkling red. The amazing part was the expression in Sunny’s eyes; she looked so innocent and full of life. So sweet. Meg had never thought of Sunny as innocent or sweet. Her eyes wandered over other photos of Sunny in her younger years. She felt as if she were looking upon a stranger, yet the stranger seemed like someone Meg would have liked to know. Sunny’s face was always more vibrant in the tinted shots on the cranberry bog, as if she were completely in her element. Her expressions mirrored Meg’s own feelings of time spent at Briar Hedge.
Finally, Meg moved on to the pictures of Sunny and her two girls. There was one on the beach from the time when Erin and Meg had buried Sunny in the sand, with only her head showing. They had placed shells and rocks around Sunny’s face like a frame, then lay down next to their mother and smiled up at the camera while Grandpa took the picture. There were other seaside shots: one around a fire after crabbing, one on a picnic with their grandparents, and a later one with Sunny and Erin and Meg holding hands and kicking their bare legs up like showgirls as they stood in the ankle-deep surf. By that time, Erin had been as tall as Sunny, and their legs were both nice and long while Meg’s were still short and chubby, but they were all laughing. It was good to be reminded that they had had some good times. Meg noted sadly that none of the later photos ever showed that same innocent expression on Sunny’s face, but still she looked happy.
Meg moved slowly along the wall, taking time to study each shot, trying to stir up some good memories that she seemed to have replaced by the bitter, ugly ones. Of course, those would not be exhibited here tonight. Those were pictures that had never been documented by photos, and would remain hidden in the darkroom of Meg’s mind.
She turned a corner and saw that she had come to the end of Sunny’s memory-lane exhibit. But the next set of photos she saw, enlarged and neatly mounted, looked familiar. Very familiar. She stared at the card next to the first one and read the graceful calligraphy listing the photographer as A. Megan Lancaster. She read her name and looked again to the photos. They were the ones she had taken over twenty years ago when Grandpa had g
iven her the camera. Sunny had kept them all this time and had even gone to the trouble to enlarge and frame them.
Tears filled Meg’s eyes, and she could no longer focus on the photographs. The iron clamp around her heart constricted even tighter, and she turned and slipped past the blurred, crowded room and out the door. She crossed the street and continued toward the waterfront, eager to escape the lights and warmth and music, walking quickly until she found a bench down by the dock. Sitting down, she took a deep breath and willed herself to relax. In an attempt to block out her thoughts, her emotions, she focused on the rhythmic sound of the water lapping against the fishing boats and the far-off, mournful sound of the foghorn. She looked up at the sky. No moon, no stars. Just a thick blanket of slate-colored clouds loomed overhead. She bent over, buried her head in her hands, and wept.
After a while, she heard footsteps on the wooden walk that led to the docks and waterfront. Probably a fisherman checking on his boat or turning in for the night. She knew that some of them lived and slept on their boats, and she wasn’t afraid. But instead of turning toward the dock, the steps continued directly toward her, and just as she began to feel uneasy, she heard a male voice call out.
“Meg, it’s just me.”
She couldn’t recall who the familiar voice belonged to and vaguely wondered how anyone knew she was out here.
“Can I join you?” he asked. She peered up and saw Matthew Logan in the faint wash of light from a streetlamp.
“Sure, if you want. But I should warn you that I’m pretty bad company just now.”
“I figured as much.” He sat down on the bench, and she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hands, then sat up straight, thankful that the darkness didn’t allow them to see each other very well. She had never liked anyone to see her when she cried.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” he began with apology in his voice, “but I thought you could use a friend right now.”
She didn’t answer. The truth was, she didn’t think she could offer much in the way of friendship.
“I know this is really tough on you, Meg. It’s hard letting someone go.”
“How do you let someone go when they were never really yours? Even if they were supposed to be.”
He didn’t answer at first, and she wondered if he would want to be her friend if he could see all the darkness and bitterness inside her.
“Maybe you just don’t realize that Sunny was yours.” His simple words surprised her. He spoke as if he actually understood.
“That’s just the point. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her. Except what I remember from twenty years ago, and that’s not anything I care to recall.”
“And now you feel like it’s too late.”
She laughed, but the sound was humorless. “Well, isn’t it?”
“It depends.”
“On what? Are you suggesting we can communicate with the dead?”
“No, nothing like that. But I know that Sunny went to a lot of trouble before she died so that you could get to know her after she was gone.”
“But why couldn’t I have known her before she went? And you don’t need to answer, because I know that it’s my fault. She tried to get me to spend time with her when I came back to town. But either I fought with her, or I was too busy. I never even gave her a chance. If only I had known she was ill, I would have done things differently.”
“Like what?”
“I would have spent time with her, and I wouldn’t have been so impatient. I would have told her that I love her.”
“How differently we would live if we knew what was down the road…”
“But Sunny knew what was down the road. Why couldn’t she have told me?”
“I don’t think she knew that her time was so near, Meg. She probably thought she would still have a chance to spend time with you.”
“But she knew she was dying. Why couldn’t she have told us? It seems so selfish that she would keep it a secret and then just slip away without even giving us a chance to—to—” Meg’s voice broke, and she dropped her head, trying to hold back the tears.
“It’s okay to cry, Meg.”
“I know.” She took in a breath and sat back up. “And believe me, I’ve done more than my share lately.”
“It’s always hard when someone dies unexpectedly. There are so many regrets.”
Abby had said he’d lost his wife nine years ago. Maybe he knew a little bit about what it was like, but he couldn’t possibly know what Meg was feeling right now. “Losing someone is one thing, but when you lose someone who was supposed to be close to you, someone you’re supposed to love, but aren’t sure if you do because there’s all this awful baggage attached...”
“It makes it hard to grieve, because you feel angry and bitter and robbed.”
“Exactly. How did you know?”
“I know.” The way he said the words sounded as if they came from a deep place. Perhaps a place she had no right to ask about.
“So how do you go about grieving when you’re angry and bitter?”
“Maybe you take the grieving back a ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“You go back and grieve for what was lost long ago. You allow yourself to acknowledge all the pain and the hurt that have induced the anger and bitterness.”
“Then what?”
“Then you forgive.”
Meg thought about that. It made sense to her, but how could she make herself forgive someone whose actions had so impacted, even impaired, her entire life?
“What if you can’t forgive?” The words came out in a barely audible whisper.
“Then you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
It sounded like a pretty harsh judgment to Meg, yet she had to admit she was miserable right now, and at this point, she couldn’t imagine ever feeling better.
“The thing is, Meg, most of us are not very good at forgiving. I think it’s one of the hardest things that God asks us to do. But the fact is, he asks us to do it for our own good. I’ve found that once I’m willing to forgive, if I ask God to help me, he always does.”
Meg felt a small ray of hope. “I’d like to believe that’s true. I really would.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around her middle. The cold, damp fog had penetrated her thin silk dress.
“It’s getting cold out here,” said Matthew. “Maybe we should go in.”
“You go ahead,” she said. “I’m not ready yet.”
He stood and removed his jacket, slipping it over her shoulders and pulling it together in front. She started to protest, but the warmth of it began to seep through immediately, and she couldn’t quite make herself give the coat back.
“See you inside, then?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ll be in soon. Thanks.”
She listened as his footsteps disappeared into the night. Part of her wanted to go with him. But she knew she had unfinished business to take care of. Maybe she couldn’t take care of it all in one night, but she could make a good start. What he had said about forgiveness seemed right. It felt like the key that she was looking for. And although it sounded amazingly simple, she knew it would not be easy. But if what he said about God helping was true, then it might be possible.
She closed her eyes and asked God to help her forgive Sunny, to help her wipe away all the bitter memories of childhood and erase them with forgiveness. She confessed that part of her wanted to cling to those horrible things and to shake her fist at Sunny and shout that it wasn’t fair, but she knew that wouldn’t help anyone. Finally, she asked God, once again, to forgive her. Then she thanked him for helping her.
She headed back to the gallery and was relieved to see that the lights were still on. She slipped to the rest room in back and splashed cold water on her face, then looked up into the mirror.
“I’m trying, Sunny,” she whispered. She applied a little lipstick and blush and attempted a smile. For Sunny’s sake she would go out there and meet her mo
ther’s friends and look at the rest of the exhibit. And maybe she would even eat something now that she didn’t feel so knotted up inside.
TWENTY
Erin invited Meg to go to church with them on Sunday, but Meg had already decided she wanted to go to Grandpa’s old church. At breakfast, Meg asked Grandmother if she would like to join her. Although she wasn’t surprised when Grandmother declined, Meg nearly choked on her toast when Grandmother said that perhaps by next week she would be strong enough to go. Even in Grandmother’s healthier and younger days she had never gone to church with Grandpa.
Meg drove to church with a lighter heart than she had had in days. She hadn’t been to Grandpa’s church for over twenty years, but she had always enjoyed the peaceful quiet of the old brick building and the rich mellow sounds of the organ. She hoped that everything was still just the same, and, like a child, she looked forward to seeing the jewel tones of the old stained glass windows.
She had checked in the religious section of the small town newspaper, found that the service began at eleven o’clock, and arrived a few minutes before the hour. She didn’t want to have to talk to anyone today; she only wanted to slip into the back, sit through the service, and then slip out again, unnoticed.
The church looked just the same. As she entered the foyer, she could hear the comforting sounds of the organ, and as planned, she slipped into an empty back pew. Just as she set down her purse and opened her bulletin, someone else slid in beside her, and Meg looked up to see Clive Logan grinning at her.
Meg smiled back, surprised and yet glad to see the girl. The service began before they could say anything more than hello. Although the pastor was new to her, everything else was very much as she remembered from childhood. Grandpa had always been an usher, and now she almost expected to see his tall, lanky frame coming down the aisle with an offering plate. But when the offering was taken, it was Matthew Logan who handed a plate down their row. Their eyes met, and she smiled up at him.
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