I let out a laugh.
“Now what’s so funny about that?” the lady I’m figuring is named Peggy asks.
“If that was the truth, I’d be going to hell in a handbasket.” Speaking of hell and handbaskets.
“Me too.”
“I always feel guilty about questioning God like I do.”
“Me too. What’s your name?”
“Heather Curridge.”
“Peggy McCall.”
Kindred spirits, obviously.
I drain my Tab. “I won’t take up more of your time.”
“Oh, I was just chatting up my grandson. He’s all into the Internet these days. It’s kinda fun.”
A few minutes later I’m back on the road, headed toward home and some cake decorating.
Michigan. Thank heavens Delores had the sense to name her son something outlandish like Xavier. I mean, really, how many Xavier Andrewses can there be in Michigan?
And did I really just down a can of Tab?
FOURTEEN
Everybody raved about the cake, but as usual the food committee, translate Carmen, overestimated the amount needed, and Jace, who met me at school after work, helps me load the leftovers into the car. And five of the centerpieces that nobody even bothered to take as a door prize.
“You outdid yourself tonight, Hezzie. That was the best devil’s food you’ve ever made. And those monkeys on the jungle cake were really cute.”
Jace, a heart surgeon, is so proud of me and my cakes. Crazy, isn’t it? I just adore the guy even if I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like. Because it’s like this: when he is around, he’s really around. I mean, a lot of women tell me that they never feel connected, that as soon as their husband gets home from work, he’s either on the computer, watching TV, or playing sports somewhere. Jace probably spends as much actual time with me as their husbands do, maybe even more.
“And the flower cake was really tasty too.”
I hand him a box. “The red velvet?”
“Your best yet.”
“You always say that.”
“You just get better and better.”
I’d gag if he wasn’t so earnest.
“Did you actually try a piece of each one?”
He nods. “Of course. What are you going to do with this stuff?”
“I think I’ll drive it down to the Hotel tomorrow.”
Will bounds up. “Hey, can I drive home with you, Dad?”
“Sure.”
If I asked my son to ride with me, he would. But I don’t. Jace has a BMW.
And yes, we really are walking clichés.
So I slam down the hatchback, climb up into the behemoth, and start her up. Off I go, up the road from Timonium north to my cliffhugging home.
But instead of taking the main thoroughfares, I decide to navigate the skinny way home across Merrymans Mill Road. No streetlights guard this byway that cuts close to Loch Raven west of where I live. Yet so much roils through my brain, it’ll be nice to just drive.
My cell phone rings. And darn it!
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? What kind of greeting is ‘yeah’?”
“Hey, Lark.”
“Hey, yourself. Where are you?”
“Merrymans Mill Road. What’s up?”
“I’m heading down to the Hotel on Monday to talk to Sister J a little further, and I thought maybe you’d like to go.”
“Nah. And you already asked me this. This answer is still no, Lark.”
“Really? How come? I thought you loved that place.”
No. No, no, no. Here I am, dotting my possessions, driving up to Gary and Mary’s practically every day, buying white things, and making crazy phone calls to my friends. Everyone but Laney thinks I’m losing it, and my own husband doesn’t even trust me with his dreams. I’m no more fit right now to put a ministry like that on my plate than I would be to pack up and be a missionary in Tibet, if they even allow them there. No, Lark.
“No. I just can’t do everything, Lark, you know? I’ve got my responsibilities with Will’s school, and Jace’s surgical schedule is nuts. It’s too much if I put that on my plate too.”
“Oh, okay. No problem.”
“Besides, I’m going down tomorrow to take this leftover cake from tonight’s school dinner. I thought maybe they’d like that.” Right? Doesn’t that count for anything?
Lark doesn’t say anything.
“You still there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What did I say?”
“Heather, take a piece of advice from me. Taking the rich folks’ leftover cake may not be the best idea. Just a thought.”
“You really think they’ll be offended?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But you don’t know what it’s like to be them, now, do you?”
“No, Lark, I don’t. Mercy, you’re awfully socially conscious tonight.”
Lark laughs. “Tonight?”
Thank goodness she has dispelled the tension. “Okay, point taken. But honestly, I just can’t come Monday. I can’t take on one more thing.”
“Suit yourself. Hey, though, let’s have lunch here at the house soon. Mother’s dying to see Will again. She just loves him. And my brother Newley’s going to come next time. He wants to see this child Mother keeps raving about. Believe me, Mother never used to rave about anybody, really. She’s changed, though, since I’ve moved in.”
“Good. I’ll call you tomorrow when I’m home to set up a time for lunch.”
We ring off and I’m still driving in the darkness. Mercy, I was so gung ho on that old Hotel, and now, now I guess I’m worried I’ll get too entangled in the place. And, well, I’ll only admit this to myself, but the clients are odd. I have no idea how I’d even relate to smelly, mentally handicapped people.
No. Not this.
Not right now.
I don’t have enough time. Maybe I need to get away for a few days, listen to the Holy Spirit or something.
I draw a mental picture of the Spirit rolling His eyes, shaking His head, and drawing His cloak more tightly about His broad shoulders. I hear the Spirit’s words: “If you need to take special time to listen to me, you’ve got too much to do, Heather.”
I see Will shove the pipe cleaners into the bags, angry at the waste of time and maybe even purpose, begging me to work down there; I see Krista pounding at the Hotel door; Sister Jerusha’s veil blows in the city breeze; Knox Dulaney smiles and Mo waves a hand in disgust; the Asian man stares into space.
And I taste cake. Cake, cake, and more cake.
But I love my life, don’t I? I’m here on the hill for a reason, surely. Perhaps I just don’t know enough about Scripture, haven’t studied enough to know God’s will. I need to get to Greenleaf and find a good Bible study book. Lord knows, I haven’t faithfully penciled in my Bible study fill-in-the-blanks for years now. That Becca Mills is such an anointed writer and teacher. That’s what the women at my old church used to say, anyway. I need to get back to church.
And what’s that hopping alongside the road?
Hopping?
Brown and furry, powerful hind legs.
A kangaroo?
A kangaroo!
And as I narrow the gap between us, still stunned at his presence here in Baltimore County, Maryland, USA, he darts into the road. I slam on my brakes, swerve, and careen into the ditch, leaves and branches thwacking my windshield while I pray the gully isn’t deep and those darn cakes don’t ruin the interior of my nice car.
Part Two
* * *
The Long and Winding Road
FIFTEEN
What in the world? Where . . . ? Here I am. Hands, yes, I see them, feel them. Yes, I can wiggle my fingers, bend my wrist—but ow! A spot higher up on the arm smarts. Feet—those move as well.
For real?
Or do I only think they’re responding? I’m in a ditch apparently; I’m still alive apparently, and
apparently, if the hand upon which the moonlight is falling is any indication, there’s cake all over the place, all over me. The devil’s food, apparently.
A tiki statue smiles at me from the passenger’s seat.
Is this what death feels like, though? Do you not realize it, having never before experienced it, unless you once intersected with the “white light,” which I haven’t? I might actually believe I’m looking through my eyes, but they are really closed for good now, and I don’t have the prior experience to realize what’s actually going on. Will I float out of my body now? Hit the roof of the car and then somehow pass through like tomato juice through cheesecloth?
I shift in my seat. Okay, ow. Surely your spirit doesn’t feel pain. And my head ripples with some discomfort, not a sledgehammer of pain, just that feeling that, “Yes, I have a head, and I know this because it hurts right now.” I turn on the interior light, look out the side window, and see not a proper window view, but grass smashed up against the glass, some of it golden strawlike summer grass, other blades clinging to spring. And one now-beleaguered blossom of Queen Anne’s lace.
The car interior is hideous. Cake chunks splattered against almost every surface.
I’m practically lying on my side against the door to my left, okay, a forty-five-degree angle, tops. I try to lift up my body, and a wave of pain courses again through my left arm.
I close my eyes and wait it out. Oh, Lord, I breathe. Oh, Lord.
I sit in the shadows wondering if the guys have made it home yet. Something warm slides down the side of my nose.
Am I bleeding? Don’t think about that, Heather. You hate the sight of blood, remember?
Try to get up again.
Same thing.
Mercy!
I turn off the engine, relieved there wasn’t some ’70s boiling car explosion, and why is it cars explode on screen all the time but rarely in real life? Not that I mind right here right now. I knew my driving would get me into trouble. Did my guardian angel finally throw up her hands in despair?
The shade. The silence. Like I’m in a vast room with the door closed and locked, lights out, good night.
My breathing echoes inside my head and all around me.
I run a finger beside my nose and taste it. Yes, blood and cake. Never thought I’d taste that combination.
Injured in the dark seems an extremely solitary place, and how am I going to get out of this truck? And should I do that anyway? Are you supposed to wait until someone finds you, or call 911? Maybe there is some sort of accident etiquette to which I’ve never been privy, having never been in a real accident before, which, I’ll grant, is a miracle akin to growing a leg back. Yes, there was that fender-bender. And the time I slipped on the ice and ran into the guardrail. And that trucker who ran me off the road. I forgot about that one.
It’s going to take one of those primal yawps to sit up and twist into any kind of position that allows some leverage, and then I’m going to have to push open the passenger-side door that will be extremely heavy at this angle.
Or I could crawl through to the back and flip open the hatchback. Hopefully those air pump tube things aren’t damaged.
More silence. More darkness. Not a car goes by, and a third option has yet to raise its hand.
Okay, then. The hatchback.
But in the meantime, I twist in the seat and shift onto my good arm, the injured arm sending blistering messages to my brain, and here’s to no head injury, right? I mean, it hurts, but surely if I’d sustained real damage, I’d be unconscious right now.
That pretty much wore me out.
Okay, just for another minute I’ll sit like this. Wonder where Jace is? Is he worried? Should I call 911?
No way. Not yet. Not with this cake all over me. I reach up. Big globs of it infest my hair. Ah, this’ll be cute. Maybe I should just call the Three As. That’s good. By the time they get here, I’ll have wiped off at least some of this gunk.
Deep breath and I hoist myself onto my knees, sort of. And in a gangly, spidery, slipping-down course, I crawl to the back of the truck, smashing cake into the seats and surfaces wherever my hands and feet land. So much for these pants too.
But who was I kidding with these things? Pink and green?
More tiki gods smile upon me. Actually, I think they’re laughing their little brown heads off.
I pull up on the handle.
Locked.
Oh, for the love of all that’s decent, why me? And who tripped the child safety switch?
I swear, my arm is glowing with pain.
Back I go, more pain, more cake, and I push the switch, disengaging all the locks on the truck. Mercy, this is too much. I’m so glad I haven’t called anybody yet. Some things a woman has to do on her own.
Still slipping, still glowing, I return to the back of the truck.
I yank on the handle again, and up the door rises, letting in fresh darkness and the smell of leaves and woods and strong skids of tar.
Finally.
And I forgot my purse with the cell phone inside.
Drat. I just have to keep moving forward. I can’t go back again. I’ll get it from outside after I rest.
Now just a quick climb out of this ditch. I claw at the grass with one hand, trying my best to keep my injured arm still. I doubt it’s broken, but man, I wish that fabled “numbness” would settle in, for heaven’s sake. Hey, I do have a bottle of ibuprofen in my purse.
No way. Forward, forward.
I crest the top and lie down on my back.
Merrymans Mill Road? What was I thinking? Why must I always take these drives? Why must I always take the long way home?
Ah, yes! That kangaroo.
What in the world was a kangaroo doing hopping down the road? Well, no sign of him now, but with my luck, he’ll return to give me a good kick in the head with one of his giant feet.
I stretch my neck back, tendons as tight as metal strapping, and see a light farther off in the woods. Maybe I can reach it. Maybe they’ll have a phone. Maybe they’re criminals. Maybe I’ve lost my mind.
But heaven help me, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ve had to go since right after I left the house this evening. Okay, so if I hold my arm against my abdomen, it’s a little better. No time like the present, Heather. Let’s get going.
I roll over and up, the world astir, my head spinning a bit, and whoa! Okay, breathe in, get past all those carnival lights behind your eyes. Wait for the stars to fade.
Breathe. I breathe.
Now gain your feet and forward march and all that manly persistence jargon. Maybe someone like Jolly lives where that light is. Somebody lonely who could use an interruption from a warm soul like me. Or an old couple who just made a pot of tea for the evening— something herbal and light, although they’d probably just as soon have Lipton’s Decaf. Maybe they’ll make me a cup, and she’ll gently suggest I call the Three As while handing me a phone with the wire still threaded into the wall.
Well, add thorn scrapes and a bleeding scalp wound to devil’s food cake, and you’ve got the makings of a zombie fresh from the grave in Night of the Living Dead, and I have to admit, those movies crack me up, even if they do scare me more than I’d like to admit.
Through the trees I see some movement in the yard, hear an old woman’s voice saying, “Hurry up and take a poo, Oatmeal. I was ready for bed an hour ago.” The voice, soft, kind, and patient despite the words uttered, brings to mind Michael Learned on The Waltons, and I do believe if that character grew into old age, she’d sound like this.
I push aside some brush, and there she is, as old as Loch Raven, which I can see over her shoulder— older probably.
“Hello?” I try to speak as softly as I can without startling her but still letting her know of my presence. “I just had an accident.”
She turns. “Oh!” And immediately starts walking my way. “Oh dear, are you all right? Look at the dirt!” She walks without impediment, sure on her miniature, old-style feet s
hod in brown loafers.
“It’s cake. I had cake in the back of my car.”
Concern pulls down her wrinkled features. She must be ninety if she’s a day, which means she’s lived through everything that’s come to matter to us nowadays. Which means there isn’t anything I could say or do that would shock her. Well, that’s a relief.
“Your arm. Are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
“And your head. It’s bleeding.”
“Yes. And I did go out for a couple of seconds, I think.”
She reaches out a bent hand, arthritis swelling the knuckles. “Look there. There’s a knot and an abrasion too. You may have a concussion.”
Over her shoulder, the back of the house, modern yet warm, reclines in a bath of floodlight. Walls of windows set in fawn-colored frames, stacks of river rock, and expanses of stained cedar create a lived-in sculpture. A wide chimney pokes through the flat roof to stand darkened against the stars. Will would love this.
“I feel pretty clear-headed, other than I forgot to check for the lock on the car door before I climbed to the back to get out. And my purse is still up by the front seat with my cell phone, and the keys are still in the ignition.” Did I say I was clear-headed? Mercy!
“I’m sure everything will be fine. Most people don’t travel down this road at night unless they have to. Let’s get you inside and you can call home. Careful now. Oatmeal probably did her business, and while she takes her time choosing her spot, she does tend to leave it out in the open.”
“Thank you.”
Her close-cropped white hair hugs her head, and the porch light attached to an overhang at the side of the house illumines the rosy scalp beneath. A sweater covers her bones on this cool June night.
She yanks open the sliding glass door at the back of the house. “Liza! We’ve got company!”
Taking my good arm, this angel-lady guides me into a den, past some old modern couches, two bentwood rockers, and a stone wall with a darkened fireplace, and into a cheerfully lit kitchen. The plain wooden cabinets soar to the ceiling, and the gold counters provide a space for copper canisters, a white Sunbeam stand mixer like my grandmother had, and a carved wooden fruit bowl. In the center of the room, a simple, round wooden pedestal table supports a bouquet of peonies in a glass bowl.
Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1 Page 38
