‘He needs a psychiatrist. And you know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘He’s only going to get worse over the next nine years.’
Oliver very nearly shot up in his seat. What startled him more than the words was the chilling optimism in Elizabeth’s voice. It pressed him backwards into rigidity.
‘Meanwhile I have to look at the kid day after day, knowing that I’m the one who . . .’
‘Shut up.’ There was something in the whisper that forced Oliver’s eyes shut and locked him in place. ‘The situation’s bad enough without you falling completely to pieces and leaving me to dig us out of this mess on my own.’
Until that moment Oliver had been both scared and angry. Now there was only room for fear.
Four
Sarah was an early riser, a morning person. Even so, she didn’t wake as early as Oliver Cully had done that Saturday morning. It was only a little after six when she emerged from a muddled dream which featured Nellie Armitage climbing a tree to rescue one of the furniture movers, while a cat watched from the bushes. Surprisingly there was no nightmarish quality to the semi-transparent images, no revisiting of a car hurtling toward her at annihilating speed, no volcanic eruption of headlight glare disintegrating into doomed blindness. No heart pounding terror to jolt her upright.
As the scene faded into drowsy consciousness, she was vaguely aware of lying in a constricted position, knees drawn up, elbows pinned to her side and lacking in covering. She opened her eyes to fuzzy unfamiliarity. Not surprising given yesterday’s move to Bramble Cottage. She must have fallen asleep on the sofa. Then uncertainty filtered in. The feel of the fabric under her was soft velvet, not the linen of her slip covers; also the soft glow from a mulberry-shaded lamp wasn’t right. Elbowing up into a sitting position she realized with a jolt that the whole room was wrong.
The pewter-stemmed lamp stood on a secretary desk along with a cluster of small silver-framed photos and a fountain pen lying across a sheet of writing paper on a leather edged pad. Sarah had never owned a fountain pen, didn’t know anyone who did and only recognized it as such because the cap lay beside it exposing the nib.
The room’s ambience could have been culled from a period novel; of the sort her ex-husband, Harris, would have termed ‘junk food for the mind.’ By his standards Jane Eyre was a bodice ripper. Forget his opinions. Sarah knew where she was now: in a house on Ridge Farm Rise. It belonged to Sonny Norris and his mother Gwen. Sonny was the driver of the car that crashed through her fence. She had driven them back here last evening, and ended up spending the night. Wrapping herself in the blanket that had fallen off the sofa while she slept, she looked toward the doorway into the foyer. Were Sonny and Gwen still asleep, or lying wakeful in their upstairs bedrooms? Was either one reliving the nightmarish events of the night before?
Sarah shivered at the memory of seeing death coming for her, surprised she had slept at all. The car had been a silver gray Cadillac. It had taken a moment for her to absorb the silence that had followed its coming to a stop, indicating the engine had stalled or been cut off. Then something had clicked on inside her, and she had darted forward to get at the driver’s-side door. What if it were locked? Thank God it wasn’t. Wrenching it open, she had willed her heart to slow its thudding. Thankfully there was still sufficient light to reveal the driver, the lone occupant, slumped against the steering wheel. A gray-haired, gray-faced man with eyes eerily wide open in an empty stare. She was sure he was dead; he looked dead. Then a muscle twitched in his cheek and he blinked, the vacuity supplanted by bewilderment.
‘Where am I?’ A thin voice that sounded to Sarah to be directed not at her but into some clouded void. He was in shock, poor man.
‘It’s OK,’ she’d soothed, ‘you’re safe. Anything hurt?’
He didn’t answer. Just stared, those eyes drained of color like the rest of him.
‘Let me help you out of the car.’ There was no resistance when she reached in to draw him back against the seat. He must be eighty or more, she thought, no longer fit to drive. A heart condition, high blood pressure or something of the sort could explain his losing control of the car, and he wasn’t wearing a seat belt. Why hadn’t someone stopped him from taking the car? No time to be judgmental. She remembered the resistance put up by her maternal grandfather, when faced with a family intervention to persuade him to give up driving. ‘I’ll take you inside to my house.’
‘No! No!’ The man’s voice rose to a shout.
‘Then we won’t do that. You’ll tell me where you live and I’ll get you home.’ She was trying to turn him sideways, without success; she’d have to lift his legs. It didn’t occur to her that perhaps she ought not to move him. All she could think of was getting him out of the chill night air. The blank look was back, and he was unable to offer any cooperation. She straightened up and looked around, hoping to see someone coming to their assistance, but the road was empty. It was a Friday evening, a night people tended to go out or be entertaining in their homes. In addition, Nellie Armitage had said several of the houses were seasonal ones, not yet opened for the summer.
Sarah hesitated. It would only take moments for her to run next door in hope of help, but ought she to risk abandoning the driver even for that short time? What if he panicked? Her attention was jarred back to him when he shouted out angrily, his voice so distorted she couldn’t make out the words.
Anger wasn’t the right word. Rage now blazed at her from eyes previously lacking any emotion. The transformation was startling, but maybe that was how shock worked. Something told her not to attempt to lean toward this man, let alone touch his shoulder.
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she asked gently.
‘I want,’ his glare approached frenzy, ‘I want my mother.’
‘Sure you do,’ she placated. Had he hit his head? Here she was wasting time, when she should have gotten her cell and phoned for an ambulance immediately. She’d race inside now and get it, but before she could move on this intent he started to cry, the slow, devastating tears of a terrified child.
‘Where did she go? Find her, make her come.’
‘I will.’
‘I want her now.’
‘I’ll find her.’
The right approach; he was moving, first groping a veined hand toward the car door. Once found, it provided him with sufficient traction to extend his left leg, which dangled limply before making contact with the ground. Slowly the rest of him followed. Sarah had backed off from the urge to assist, but stood ready to provide support. When he straightened up, swaying slightly, he revealed a height only slightly above average, although the drooped shoulders might subtract an inch or two. Out in the open his eyes gained blueness that contrasted with the pallid face and general grayness of his appearance, hair, sweater and slacks. She took this as a hopeful sign. He stood looking around, but giving no indication of interest in the missing section of picket fence or the rear of the jutting Cadillac.
‘I know why she’s not here,’ he said in a male timbre that startled Sarah. ‘She won’t leave the dog. Do you know,’ he turned towards her confidingly and in doing so, shed several years, ‘she loves that dog more than me. I want her to get rid of it. You can understand that, can’t you?’
No jacket, only that sweater, and it was getting colder, but he looked better physically. If she could manage to get him to tell her where he lived she could drive him home. ‘Do you mean your wife?’ There couldn’t be a mother.
‘She’s dead. Sometimes I can’t remember her name. That frightens me. Do you think it should?’ He asked it in a mildly puzzled way, as if inquiring why it had rained so much lately.
‘No, there are lots of things I can’t remember.’
The perplexity faded; he seemed finally to bring Sarah’s face into focus, staring at her as if a tiny flame of happiness had been lighted behind those increasingly blue eyes. ‘You’re Rowena. I liked it when you came to visit.’ He was touching her shoulde
r when the sound of an approaching vehicle reached them. They both turned to see an SUV skirt the rear of the Cadillac and stop just short of the driveway. A man was getting out of the driver’s side, his concerned voice carrying clearly.
‘How are things?’
‘I’m fine,’ Sarah raised her voice against the breeze, ‘but I can’t assess beyond myself.’ She wasn’t going to shout out that her companion was still badly confused. He added nothing; his eyes had emptied again.
The driver of the SUV was now opening the front passenger-side door. She watched the newcomer assisting someone in getting out. A woman. Judging from the glimpse of silver hair she had to be elderly, or at the least not young. Relief at the arrival of support was tamped down by continued concern over the car crash victim’s behavior.
Sarah guided him across the lawn to the driveway which the arrivals now approached. The man was tall, ruggedly built with a thatch of white hair, and wore a lightweight jacket open to reveal a thick knit navy sweater. The woman was slim, fairly tall with an upright carriage and a suggestion of quiet elegance, perhaps partially supplied by the pearl earrings and single strand around her neck. She was coatless. The strain on her face was evident as they drew nearer, although Sarah sensed control over panic. Was this the wife, whom she’d been told was dead?
The four met at the foot of the driveway, the woman dividing her gaze between Sarah and the man who had now taken hold of her hand in a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Look,’ he was drawing her forward, triumph in his voice, ‘it’s Rowena.’ Resentment filtered in, tightening his profile. ‘You said she lived . . . somewhere else.’
The silver-haired woman put her arms around him as he released Sarah’s hand and shambled up to her. ‘No, Sonny. This isn’t Rowena, although I understand why you would think so; the dark hair and similar height. Now why don’t you go and talk for a minute to this nice man who so kindly brought me to find you, and then we can go home.’
‘I don’t want . . .’
The other man cooperated promptly, a smile warming his fresh-complexioned face. Up close Sarah assessed his age to be in the early- to mid-fifties. The hand he extended to Sonny looked as if it was regularly put to manual use. He had a British accent.
‘Good to meet you, Mr Norris. I’m Sid Jennson from next door.’
‘Are you?’
Sarah had been informed by the realtor that an English couple owned the neighboring house. Mr Jennson gave her a kind look before turning his attention back to Sonny Norris. ‘The wife’s gone for the weekend, visiting our daughter, so you’ll be doing me a favor giving me a bit of a chat. How about we go take a look at your car and see what it’ll take to get it chugging?’
‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘I’m sure. Nasty hill that one, had problems with it myself. I understand you were a piano teacher. Always wanted to take lessons as a kid; think I’m too old to give it a try?’ The response was a mumble, but lacking in hostility.
The silver-haired woman waited until the two men moved away before turning her blue eyes to Sarah. ‘Rowena is my sister. She lives in Cyprus. I’m so terribly sorry for what you’ve been put through; such a scare for you, the shock of the car coming at your house must have been dreadful. I hope at the very least you were indoors.’
‘I wasn’t, which was for the best,’ Sarah added quickly, ‘because I was able to get to him at once. It was a relief to find he didn’t appear badly hurt. But do you think you should come inside and phone your doctor to take a look at him?’
‘I think I’ll wait on that, seeing he appears physically OK.’ The woman hesitated and Sarah noted worriedly her damp pallor, the beading around her upper lip.
‘Even so, do come in and sit down for a moment,’ she urged.
‘That is kind, but best to get Sonny home as quickly as possible. Now what about you? Do you wish to notify the police? There is the damage to the fence, which of course I will pay for, but I will understand completely if you wish to file a report.’
‘Please don’t worry.’ Sarah felt incredibly sorry for her. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you or your husband. The entire fence needs repainting, so replacing the part that’s gone will be nothing.’
‘I do appreciate your forbearance. Even so, you must allow me to insist on taking care of the expense.’ Another hesitation. ‘My dear, Sonny isn’t my husband. He’s my son. Early onset Alzheimer’s. My father had it, although we didn’t know the name for it in those days.’
It was hard for Sarah to get the words out; there were none that would be adequate. Mr Norris had pleaded for his mother and that part had not been nonsense. ‘What a tragedy for you both.’
‘We manage, with the obvious exception of today. Do forgive me, I realize I haven’t got round to exchanging names.’
‘Sarah Draycott.’ She wished she were wearing her raincoat so she could have taken it off and placed it around the other woman’s shoulders.
‘Gwen . . .’ The beading of perspiration had increased and now she swayed. Sarah had an arm around her when Sid Jennson came back with Sonny Norris. He had driven the Cadillac into his driveway.
‘I don’t think you should drive it home,’ he told Gwen. ‘If it’s all right with you I’ll check it out, see if there’s been any damage. In the meantime I’ll run you and your son home.’
‘Maybe I could do that,’ Sarah offered. An exchange of eye contact told her this new neighbor understood the sense this made. She would be able to offer assistance, if necessary, that a man could not, such as helping Gwen Norris into bed – surely the best place for her right now. At that moment she appeared in more need of a doctor than her son.
Leaving Sid Jennson to provide the supportive arm, Sarah hurried indoors to gather up her purse and cell phone, along with a throw blanket, and then out through the kitchen door to the garage to back out her car. The ride to the house on Ridge Farm Rise took only a couple of minutes with Sonny Norris sitting silently in the back. Even with a knitted blanket around her shoulders, Gwen looked ill, had trouble unbuckling her seat belt and needed Sarah’s support from the driveway to the front door. Sonny preceded them, leaving it open behind him, to become a shadowed figure mounting a silhouette of a staircase. A large, brindled dog emerged silently to survey them from the foyer.
The house was a dark red, New England, two-story, but Sarah took in nothing of its surroundings. Her mind was entirely occupied with getting Gwen inside and off her feet. They entered the room lined with bookcases to the left of the front door, followed by the dog, and again Sarah observed little beyond the available seating. The now visibly trembling Gwen grasped the arm of the sofa and sank onto it with Sarah’s help, murmuring that she was reacting like an old woman and would only need a moment before going upstairs to check on her son. Her hand moved to stroke the dog now lying beside her feet.
‘Jumbo . . . my gentle giant, ever faithful, utterly devoted.’ It was not clear whether she was speaking to him or Sarah.
‘I like dogs – I’m hoping for one of my own. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?’
‘Nothing, thank you. I’ll be right as rain if I just stay still until this silly dizziness passes. You should be getting back home, my dear.’ The blue eyes strained to focus. ‘I know that house has been empty so you can only just have moved in, to be confronted so soon by all this disturbance.’
‘Don’t give that a thought. You and your son are what matter. Is there anyone I can call? Your doctor or someone to spend the night with you, so you can get a decent rest?’
‘What a thoughtful young woman you are, but I’m already feeling better.’
It was clear to Sarah that this was overly optimistic. When Gwen attempted to stand she had to grab for Sarah’s hand to steady herself. As if sensing impending movement the dog had risen before his owner did and now stood off to the side. Sarah knew at that moment she would have to spend the night, but this could be voiced later. The immediate necessity was getting the other woman upstairs and into bed, and t
his was accomplished with only token protest. Sarah turned her back while Gwen undressed and slipped on a nightgown. Head resting on two plump pillows, Gwen smiled in weary gratitude as Sarah tucked the bed covers around her.
‘Why don’t you have an hour’s sleep? Then I’ll come back and see if you would like something to eat and drink.’
‘There’s soup on the stove,’ the voice was increasingly faint, ‘and salad and such in the refrigerator.’
‘Meanwhile, shall I check in on your son?’
‘Bedroom to the left, but he won’t answer your knock unless he chooses. Probably sleeping after . . . everything. Don’t think he’ll try to leave again, but worry I may not wake if . . .’
‘Don’t, I’ll be here till morning, camping on your sofa. Any sound will rouse me. I’ve always been a light sleeper.’ No answer. The worn-out mother had slipped into a temporarily merciful reprieve. Leaning closer, Sarah was relieved by the even breathing and a return of better color to the face and mouth.
As it happened there was no need to check on Charles Norris: as she closed the door behind her he came out of his room, merely responding to her greeting with a mildly puzzled look.
‘Your mother’s sleeping,’ she told him.
‘She does that.’ He went down the stairs ahead of her and the dog that had been waiting at the bottom moved away without haste, but with a sideways look that suggested avoidance. When Sarah descended, he returned to stand alongside her, staring upward, placidly allowing her to stroke his great head. Then he climbed the steps, one silent paw at a time until turning in the direction of the bedroom she had just left.
Across from the bookcase-lined room, to the right of the front door, was another room of equal size, decorated in a similarly muted color scheme with a congenial grouping of chairs around the fireplace. Other pieces provided a tasteful blend of graceful antiquity and function. It was in here that Charles Norris had disappeared. Sarah stood at the entrance looking at him with an overwhelming compassion that she couldn’t remember experiencing for anyone since her world had crashed in upon her. His mother . . . his poor, poor mother! How could she take the daily pain of watching him suffer what should have been – if it had to be either – her lot? He was seated at a bench before a grand piano, shoulders slack, gray hair straggled untidily from the wind, his hands drifting soundlessly the length of the keys, eyes staring straight ahead into some fathomless void.
Sea Glass Summer Page 8
