If only she’d risked it.
Anger pelted her heart like a hailstorm.
She pushed it aside.
“You doing all right?” Pastor Scott put his arm around her and squeezed.
She nodded.
“Okay, we’re getting ready to start. I’ll go in first and you can follow like we talked about.” He left her standing in the foyer in her black skirt and gray blouse. Would she ever wear the colors of spring again? Would she ever want to?
Black felt so appropriate.
After the pastor took his place on the stage, it was her turn. As if she were a bride, Campbell began the trek down the aisle. She kept her eyes focused on Pastor Scott, a man, she felt embarrassed to say, she’d imagined as her father on more than one occasion.
Just as she’d done with her third grade gym teacher. Her mother’s male colleagues. Pretty much any man Mom’s age with blond hair and a lanky frame, like her. She didn’t get her features from Mom, so they must’ve come from her dad. Whoever he was.
She reached the front of the sanctuary, avoiding the teary eyes of the crowd, and sat in the pew. She peered down at her long-fingered hands resting in her lap. The blood had left them, leaving them white and cold. She rubbed them together to warm them. It didn’t work.
Pastor Scott glanced at her and then smiled that soft smile. He’d have been a good father to her. She’d have called him “Daddy.” He would’ve loved her and told her she was beautiful; told her she wasn’t an accident. Just a surprise. He’d have made her feel better when the teasing started, told her those kids didn’t know what they were talking about. He would have. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He wasn’t the one.
Why had Mom waited so long to come clean about her dad’s identity?
She looked at the enlarged photo of her mom, radiant and smiling, that stood on an easel near the front of the church. She couldn’t imagine her mother taking that secret to the grave. Campbell deserved to know—surely Mom had planned to explain everything.
Campbell had asked a few times, but her mother had always said there was no need for her to know. He wasn’t in their life because he wasn’t good for them. Was he in jail? Was he a serial killer? She’d never know.
And every time she’d brought it up, she sensed a hurt behind her mother’s eyes. As though Campbell implied she hadn’t given her enough or that she needed a father because she had a lousy mother. That couldn’t have been farther from the truth.
Campbell tried to focus on the service. She chided herself for allowing her mind to wander at her own mother’s funeral.
Six pallbearers carried the shiny wooden box to the front, and everyone turned their attention to the pastor.
“Today we say good-bye to a woman we all knew and dearly loved. I don’t have to tell you what a bright light Suzanne Carter has always been in this church, in the high school, in the community.”
She had been a bright light. Campbell’s chest tightened in an emotional tug of war. The part of her that wanted to smile lost to the part that wanted to cry.
She dabbed her cheek with a tissue and tried to compose herself. She had to speak in a few moments. Nausea rippled through her stomach like a stone plunked in calm water.
Pastor Scott continued saying nice things about her mother. A woman everyone loved. Talented. Humble. A friend to all. A devoted mom. A tutor. An art lover.
He left nothing out.
His gaze moved across the sea of faces and landed on her with a slight nod. She felt her eyes widen. Time to stand. Would her legs hold her weight?
“Now we’ll hear a few words from Suzanne’s daughter Campbell.”
She grabbed the pew in front of her and pulled herself to her feet on wobbly knees. Her stomach had hollowed, and moisture coated her cold palms. She smoothed her skirt and begged her feet to carry her to the stage.
Up the three small steps she went with a prayer of thanks she hadn’t tripped. She took the pastor’s spot behind a wooden pulpit and peered over the crowd that had gathered to say good-bye to her mother. They all expected her to say something appropriate. Expected brilliance. It’s what her mother would’ve delivered.
She cleared her throat and pulled the microphone a smidge closer to her mouth. It fed back, its tinny ring cutting through the silence. She clung to the sides of the pulpit as though its wooden frame gave her the ability to stand.
“You all know what a wonderful person my mom was.” She’d practiced her speech in her head. She should’ve written it down. Standing there, with faces staring back, well-practiced words escaped her.
“She…uh…she loved you all as if you were part of her family. You were her family. We were.” She smiled and glanced at the photo of her mother. “Mom had a way of putting people at ease. A way of making you feel like you could do anything. I think that’s because she could do anything. She must’ve figured we were all as competent and graceful as she was.”
Campbell’s eyes scanned the crowd. Mom’s best friend Tilly sat near the front, nodding her support, a sweet smile on her face. The entire high school had the morning off to attend the service in honor of her mom. So many of her former teachers and many of Mom’s students now sat attentively, looking at her.
She cleared her throat and tried to remember what had come next when she’d rehearsed this in front of the bathroom mirror that morning. Mom’s paintings caught her eye. “My mother was an artist. I think she always has been. She described herself as ‘different,’ but it was that artistic eye that separated her from the masses. It transformed the way she saw the world. The way she taught me to see the world.” She nodded at the thought. “She believed in people—even though it sometimes hurt her.”
Mom had always taught her to believe the best about people. The older Campbell got, the harder that had become.
A lump formed in her throat, and she coughed to clear it. “We knew Mom was…dying.” The word jumped out at her and she had to look up at the ceiling to keep from crying. “But no matter how much time you have to prepare, it never seems like enough. She lived a wonderful life, cut short much too soon. She wouldn’t want us to dwell on that, though. She would want us to live more deeply—more passionately—more beautifully. And that is the best way I can think of to honor her memory.”
Even as she said the words, she wondered if she could live the passionate life her mother had dreamed for her. Every ounce of her passion had been sunk in her photography—not in people or relationships. Somehow, she imagined her mother wouldn’t approve.
“Art is a wonderful thing, Cam,” she’d say. “But you have to fill up your creative tank. It’s the people in your life who do that.”
She’d purposely kept her remarks brief, and once again, she begged her legs to transport her across the floor and to the safety of the solid pew beneath her.
Sniffles mingled with the piano as the chorus of “It is Well” rang through the vast room, filling the air with a heavy sadness.
“The song isn’t sad,” her mom had insisted. “The writer is rejoicing.”
“I know where the song came from, Mom. The writer was grieving. He’d just lost his four daughters when their ship to England went down.”
“Exactly. And even in that tragedy, he sang ‘It is well, it is well, with my soul.’ ” Mom sang the line herself, then smiled. “Pretty easy to trust God when everything’s going your way. Much harder to do that when your life is spiraling out of control.” Mom shrugged then as if she’d said the simplest thing ever, but Campbell couldn’t help but think it sounded a lot easier than it actually was.
Would things ever be well with her soul again?
Pastor Scott ended with a short prayer. Heartfelt and peaceful. Maybe Mom sat overhead on a cloud next to Jesus. Surely she would continue to watch over her only daughter. Would God allow that? Is that how things worked in heaven?
The pastor walked down the stairs and stopped at the edge of her pew, waiting for her to stand at his side. He offered his arm, even though he w
asn’t—and never would be—her father. The kind gesture moved Campbell almost as much as the realization that this was it. Time to say good-bye. One last look at the coffin and she mustered the strength to stand. She turned to face Pastor Scott.
He nodded as if to tell her she’d be okay. She weaved her own long arm through his, and they started down the aisle. Then, as if she were watching from a distant place in the room—as if she’d left her body—she headed toward the back of the church. As she walked, she scanned the room. A sea of recognizable faces.
Except for one man.
Tall. Lanky. Older. Gray hair atop a long face. A stranger.
She caught his eye, but he quickly looked away. At the floor. Out the window. Anywhere but at her.
Who is he?
She reached the end of the aisle and followed Pastor Scott into the foyer.
“We can head right over to the cemetery if you’re ready,” he said.
Campbell had made arrangements to ride with the pastor and his wife to the burial. There had been talk of a car to take her—alone—to the cemetery, but she refused. What could be lonelier than an empty car ride to a cemetery?
“Almost. Do you know who that man is?” She nodded in the direction of the stranger.
Pastor Scott followed her gaze and then shook his head. “Not sure. Maybe an old friend? Colleague?”
Campbell frowned. She expected to know everyone at the funeral. And with the exception of this one man, she did.
She stood in place until Pastor Scott’s wife emerged from the sanctuary, followed by the rest of the crowd.
“You ready?” The pastor waited.
Campbell glanced back at the old man, but he’d gone. She scanned the lobby. There was no sign of him. No sign that a stranger had ever been there, paying his respects.
TWO
Campbell
Sitting in the driveway of her mom’s house on Tee Street, Campbell couldn’t turn the car off. Couldn’t go inside. Would it still smell sterile and medicinal or would Mom’s real scent have returned? Lavender and clean cotton. The perfect mix.
She hadn’t been back since the night she’d found Mom on the floor. Then for a solid week she’d only gone between the hospital and her own apartment. Now, she had to go into the house where her mom had lived. And died.
Red flowered sheets still flapped on the clothesline out back. She’d have to figure out what to do with the house. But not today. Today, she couldn’t think about selling it. She loved it too much.
And Mom had loved it.
That night, the chocolate chip cookie night that never was, Mom would’ve told her what to do about the house even when Campbell tried to stop her—not wanting to face the fact that her mom wouldn’t be around forever. She would’ve broken it down so Campbell understood exactly how to list it and what to list it for. Or what it would take to keep it. She wouldn’t have left anything out.
If only Mom had had more time.
Campbell finally turned the key and shut off the engine, but she sat for a few more minutes, her head on the steering wheel. Tears fell from her cheeks and dotted her black skirt.
A river of tears later, her muscles aching from bunching them up, reason took over. Tantrums were for children.
She wiped her face and forced herself out of the car. Up the walk. Until she came to the tulips.
“I’m planting these for you, Camby-Jay,” her mother had said when they first moved in. “I know tulips are your favorite.” At eight years old, Campbell determined her favorite flower after carrying a tulip bouquet in Tilly’s wedding.
“What color are they?”
“White.” Mom smiled. “Clean and crisp. They’ll be perfect.”
They bloomed the next spring after the last frost, and Campbell had been so proud of the one she picked.
“Not for picking,” Mom said. “Just for looking.”
Now Campbell’s breath caught at the silky whiteness of the tulips. She picked a trio of them. Today she needed them on the kitchen counter more than they needed to be in the yard. The weathered arched door—a flea market find—boasted a Welcome sign her mother had painted herself with a light blue coat of watered-down paint, leaving the chipping, distressed look she loved so much.
“It’ll add so much charm to the house,” she’d said. “I’ll feel like I’m at a beach cottage or vacation home.”
Campbell didn’t argue. She’d learned to trust her mother’s artistic instinct. And her mother taught her to trust her own. She was grateful for that.
She stood in the doorway of the empty house—keenly aware of the absence of her mother’s infectious laugh. How many nights had they sat on that old couch, indulging in popcorn and eighties movies? Pretty in Pink. The Breakfast Club. Sixteen Candles. Mom had covered Campbell’s eyes during all the questionable parts, laughing and claiming that her baby still wasn’t old enough to know about these things.
Campbell smiled at the memory.
In the entryway, Mom’s gray sweater hung on a hook next to the door. Her “house sweater” as she called it. “I’ll only wear it at home, Camby, I promise.” But she didn’t. She wore it everywhere. The ratty old thing became a permanent fixture on her mother’s small frame.
Campbell picked it up, put it to her nose. Inhaled.
Clean cotton and lavender. Another long sniff. The smell of Mom.
The flea market sweater she’d tried to talk her out of buying now seemed like a familiar friend. Mom loved the history attached to the things in antique stores and flea markets. “Junk,” Campbell had called it.
“You never know who this belonged to, Cam,” she’d said, holding the sweater in front of her. “Could’ve been a famous author or”—she feigned a gasp—“an artist.” Her eyes had grown wide and then she’d examined the wristband. “Is that a splotch of paint?” She grinned.
“Or it could’ve belonged to a mass murderer or”—Campbell feigned a similar gasp—“an accountant.” She rolled her eyes at her mom, but it did no good—she’d already bought the ugly thing.
She shrugged her own jacket off and wrapped the ratty sweater around herself, poking her arms through the worn sleeves. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Ridiculous, yet somehow…perfect.
The house creaked in protest to its emptiness. Even the walls seemed sad at Mom’s passing. She’d cared for the house so diligently, made it into a home. Their home. Tiny but tidy. Neat and artsy. Homey. Cozy. Theirs.
Hers.
Soon to be someone else’s.
In that moment, she wanted to stay—to curl up on the couch and spend forever in the house that smelled of lavender and clean cotton.
She stumbled into the kitchen. The sight of the full coffee pot stopped her, and her breath caught as she realized the finality of pouring it out. The last pot of coffee Mom ever made.
It’s just coffee. She picked up the pot and held it over the drain, but something stopped her from dumping it down the sink.
Thoughts of her mom standing in that very spot watching the coffee brew drifted through her mind. She took a deep breath and exhaled. Still, her eyes stung, tears threatening. She returned the carafe to the coffee maker.
For days she’d sat in the uncomfortable, vinyl-covered hospital chair holding Mom’s hand, begging her not to die. The nurses flitted in and out of the room, testing, fixing, poking, prodding.
They always asked if she needed anything.
She always shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”
No greater lie had ever been spoken, of course. She was anything but fine. Would she ever be fine again?
The lump she’d fought for days intensified at the base of her throat, mixing a cocktail of bile and pain. One stray tear. Then another. She swore she wouldn’t cry. Even though Mom was in a coma, Campbell had to believe she could still hear her, and she didn’t want to risk making her sad.
Mom’s hand in hers looked thin and frail. Even the skin appeared almost translucent next to hers.
“Mom,
you’re all I’ve got.” The weight of the statement hit her like a slap in the face. In a matter of minutes, she could be alone. How could this happen? How could a God she thought loved her let this happen?
Mom didn’t respond. Campbell wished she would wake up—give them a chance to say the things they hadn’t. Or at least a chance to say good-bye.
Campbell flipped through a mental Rolodex of almost-relationships she’d had over the years. Ashley Robinson. Grades two through six: best friend. Grades six through twelve: worst enemy. College to present: inconsequential person. She hardly ever thought of Ashley’s betrayals anymore. The pain they caused. The permanent damage.
Scars are healed wounds, but they still show on the skin.
Jason Timmons—boyfriend: one month. Wade Cooper—boyfriend: two months and three days. Travis Berkley—boyfriend: record-breaking seven months, two weeks, and four days. Almost eight months. Almost heart stealer. Almost.
Mom told her she had to stop pushing everyone away. “For once, just believe the best about someone, Cam.” She’d tried but failed. She couldn’t let them in. She didn’t believe them.
She grabbed a soda from the fridge and carried it into the living room. She sank into an arm chair and propped her feet on the coffee table, kicking her black heels off and pushing them over the edge and onto the hardwood floor where they landed with a thud. The clock told her it was almost one on the day she buried her mother. Now what? How would she spend the rest of the day? The week? Her life?
Amid her mother’s flea market treasures, Campbell snuggled into the chintz cushions of the sofa and clicked on the TV. Not because she had any interest in it, but because she hated the lonely silence of an empty house. She flipped through the channels. Nothing.
Thoughts of the conversation Mom had planned on having that night bobbed around in her mind.
Her cell phone buzzed, forcing the thoughts away. She fished it from her purse and clicked it off without looking at the caller ID. Apologies and sympathy didn’t interest her now.
She stared at her feet for a long moment, and only then did she realize the coffee table under them wasn’t familiar. Instead of the usual coffee table, an old trunk with a farmhouse quilt draped over it sat in front of the couch.
A Sweethaven Summer Page 2
