“Hey.” Paul interrupts my thoughts. “I was thinking we could fly out. Spend Christmas there with you. I’d do Christmas Eve service and then leave here as soon as possible on Christmas Day. We’d get there late, probably, but—”
“Really?” Excitement builds in me. I haven’t seen my brother in two years. “Have you been talking to Mom?” Paul’s laugh is all the answer I need and I groan. Loudly. “She’s convinced everyone to come here, hasn’t she? Peg too?”
“Peg will call you later. Listen, before you freak out, when’s the last time we were all together? Think about it. We’ll all pitch in. The house is plenty big, and Mom thinks it’d be better for you to stay put. Says you sound much more at peace since you moved up there.”
Moved. Like I’ve left my old life behind completely.
Well, maybe I have.
“All right. I guess the kids will enjoy seeing their cousins.” I’m making it sound like torture, having to spend time with my family.
Paul’s chuckle tells me I’m exactly right. “Try to find a little enthusiasm, Savannah. We wouldn’t want to add to your misery by showing up and giving you a hug or anything.”
“I know. I’m being horrible, aren’t I?” I slump into a chair and pull my knees up. “I’m dreading discussing this with Kevin. He’s acting really weird, Paul.”
“Weird how?”
“Like friendly. Like he thinks we can actually be friends. He keeps calling . . . He makes up excuses, but I know it’s to check up on me.”
“Well.” My brother lapses into momentary silence, and I hear his fingers tapping against his phone. “That’s understandable.”
I draw a deep breath and frown at the family portrait over the mantel. My mother has filled the house with framed photographs of all of us taken over the years. Kevin is in so many of them. “I’m not suicidal, Paul. I’d tell someone if I was. Seriously.”
“Good. Okay.” His intake of breath is unsteady. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he walked into that hospital room six years ago. I don’t think he believed I’d actually done it. Actually tried to end my life. I didn’t either. But the bandages around my wrists told the real story.
“Is this what happens when people get divorced? They just become sort-of friends who talk to each other about the kids and the weather and who gets to see the children when?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes they don’t talk at all. That’s worse, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.” I’m being honest. “Talking to Kevin right now hurts. Hurts a lot.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” My brother sighs again. “I know. Truthfully, I’ve been praying something would happen to change things.”
Huh. “I’ve been praying too,” I admit. “Trying to. But I don’t know what to ask for anymore. I’ve given up trying to figure it out. God knows what I mean and what will happen, even if I don’t. So I just pray for Kevin to be okay. And that I’ll be okay. I don’t want to hate him. I want him to be happy. And if he can’t be happy with me . . . then I hope he finds happiness elsewhere.”
“Sounds like you’re doing better than I am. I still want to kill the man.”
“Paul. You guys were best friends. Don’t forget that.”
“You’re my sister.” His groan is long, sad. “What he’s done . . . I can’t fathom it. I’ve heard pretty much everything since entering the ministry, stories that keep me up nights. But this hits too close to home. This has damaged my family.”
“I think we were damaged long before Kevin decided to sleep with someone else.” I know we were. I just haven’t wanted to admit it before now.
“I’m glad you’re not bitter, Savannah. It’s best to try to love, no matter how hard it is.” He gives a harsh laugh. “Guess I should try taking my own advice, huh?”
“Oh, some days I’m still bitter. Sometimes I don’t want to love, Paul. I don’t want to still love him.” I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. Love. I thought I knew all about that once.
We talk a bit longer, until I run out of words. Paul asks if he can pray, and I listen, tears warming my cheeks.
After I hang up I think about what he said. Think about Clarice and how she keeps intimating that prayer changes things. If that were true I’d have to acknowledge God still listens, still cares about this tragedy that has become my life.
I need air. I can’t sit cooped up inside thinking about things I don’t understand. I pull on my winter gear and head out for a nice long walk.
The woods are snowy and silent and have that ominous feel about them, like I’m being watched, but the sensation doesn’t scare me. I spent most summers here from a young age—this was my playground. I know these trails like the back of my hand. I don’t worry about what might be out there wanting to do me harm. As my father would say, don’t spend your time borrowing trouble. It’ll catch you eventually.
Trouble really can’t begin to describe the kind of trauma we began to endure on a daily basis after the accident. Thinking back now, I see the exact moment I began to retreat. Shelby’s funeral . . .
Somehow I stand, half stand, half slump against Kevin, and watch as they lower that small shining casket into the dark cavernous hole beneath the ground. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. I’ve always wondered why they say that at funerals. Because we get it. God, we so get it. My little girl, full of life and energy and excitement for the future, here one day and gone the next.
“I’m just going to Caisey’s, Mom!” she yells at me from the driveway, but the phone is ringing and I’m halfway through the front door.
“Put on your helmet!” It’s the last thing I said to my daughter.
Shelby always wore her helmet. But in the end, it didn’t matter. It didn’t save her.
It’s Kevin on the phone, calling to tell me he got tickets to that play I’ve been wanting to see. For our anniversary. I head back outside to the sickening sound of screeching brakes. Someone is screaming. It might be me.
“Savannah? What was that?” Kevin is yelling now. “Savannah? Savannah!”
I’m running down the street before I realize I’m still holding the phone.
Tears freeze on my face and my nose burns.
Five deer graze on the right-hand side of the path, and I slow my steps. They’re standing together, nosing through the white stuff for shoots, I suppose. I wonder what they’ll find this time of year. I stand and watch them. They’re majestic creatures, really. Gentle and unassuming. A nuisance in the summer, though. Mom is forever chasing them out of her hostas. I half wonder if Brock might be out here with his rifle. I hope not.
Every now and then the tall pines around me throw down a light shower of snow. Real winter has come early here and decided to stay. The sun pokes through green branches in flashes as a soft breeze blows through the trees. I lock eyes with a doe and smile. Her ears flick and for a second I think she’ll bolt, but she chooses to ignore me and resumes her foraging.
There is movement beyond the clearing. Laughter, I think. Or perhaps it was a bird. But I hear it again, the sudden high-pitched laughter of a child. I take a step forward. I don’t want to startle the deer, but I wonder if that’s Maysie, running around alone out here. I worry they give that child too much freedom when she is not in school. Come to think of it, I don’t know for sure that she attends school. She’s always been at the house when I’ve been there. It could be possible Brock homeschools her, but when would he have the time with all the writing he does?
A glimpse of red and a snatch of blond catch my eye and I pick up my pace. I’m sure I saw a child running across the path up ahead. “Maysie!” The deer scatter and leap away through the forest and I break into a run. She’s too far from home. She could get lost. Hurt. Anything could happen to her.
“Maysie, wait! It’s me, Savannah!” Looking to the left and then the right, I see no sign of her. I double back and head south, toward the Chandlers’.
CHAPTER 11
“Everything you can imagine is real.�
�
—PABLO PICASSO
Someone is playing tricks on me.
By the time I reach the front steps and ring the bell, I’m out of breath and my heart is pounding so hard I’m sure I’ll have a heart attack right here on the stoop.
Clarice swings open the heavy door and smiles. “Savannah, dear. Do come in. We weren’t expecting you, were we?” She frowns as though she may have forgotten.
“No, but I . . . Maysie was out in the woods and I . . .” It’s still hard to breathe, but what little air I have left leaves my lungs as soon as I enter the living room.
Maysie is sitting at the gaming table with Brock. Playing checkers. And they look as though they’ve been there for some time.
“Sh-she was just outside,” I stammer. Of course she wasn’t. I know it, deep down, but if it wasn’t Maysie, then who was that out there? We are the only two homes on this stretch of land at the end of the lake.
Brock meets my gaze over the top of his daughter’s head. His brow furrows, and the way he half rises out of his chair tells me I look exactly how I feel, like I’m about to pass out. Maysie swivels to face me and smiles.
“Hi, Miss Sabannah. I hab a cold.” Her red nose confirms it. A sneeze shakes her tiny frame and Brock hands her a Kleenex from the box beside them.
“I’m keeping her inside today.” He gives me that quizzical look he wears so well, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. Well, maybe I don’t.
“Oh. I guess it was . . .” What?
“You probably saw my angel.” Maysie’s eyes light with the notion.
Brock smiles and lifts a brow. “Mays . . .” Maysie shrugs, turns back to their game, and jumps three spaces for the win. Brock thumps against the back of his chair, says a word he’s not supposed to, and covers it with a cough.
“Brock, dear.” Clarice’s admonishment makes him grin.
“Chess. I’ll teach you to play chess. You won’t win at that.”
“Bet I will.” Maysie giggles and I startle at the sound. That’s not the same laughter I heard a few minutes ago.
“Sorry to have disturbed you,” I manage to say. “I’m glad it wasn’t Maysie out there. I was worried.”
“I wouldn’t get lost,” Maysie pipes up.
Brock concentrates his gaze on me. “Thanks for checking on her.”
“Well, since I’m here, could I see the puppies?” I feel like I’ve stepped into an old episode of The Twilight Zone. Puppies are soft and warm and real. I need a dose of reality right about now.
“Of course you can.” Clarice smiles and leads the way. “I was just about to put the kettle on.” In the kitchen she stops midway and puts a hand on my arm. “Why don’t you sit down first? Catch your breath.”
She fixes tea and I take off my coat and gloves and unwrap my scarf. The warmth of the room calms me and I settle at the long kitchen table. My eyes land on the big black Bible that sits near the fruit bowl. Clarice soon pushes a steaming mug of hot tea toward me and sits down with her own.
“Don’t let those thoughts have their way, Savannah.”
Thoughts that I’m slipping back toward the brink of insanity, she means. How she knows . . . I can’t comprehend Clarice’s freaky mind-reading tactics. I gave up trying weeks ago.
“I just want to be well.” Tears burn and slip over my cheeks.
“Oh, my dear.” She breathes out a long, sad sigh, rounds the table in a flash, and pulls me into her firm embrace. She smells like roses and tea and old books, and as she gently rubs my shoulder, I feel strangely at peace.
Being up here has had that effect on me. The last time I really felt completely peaceful or content was probably over ten years ago. Before Shelby died. But now there are moments I believe I might be able to overcome the turmoil inside that still takes hold every so often.
“I don’t understand. Out in the woods today . . .” I can’t admit the truth. That for a moment, when I saw Maysie sitting safely inside, my mind suggested that the child I thought I saw was Shelby. “And the greenhouse . . . Normal people don’t see and hear things that aren’t there.”
Clarice’s laughter is soft as she sits back down. “How do you know that?” She sips her tea and studies me through luminous eyes I’m half afraid to look into. “Perhaps they do and they just don’t discuss it.”
“Do you think it’s possible to see things we want to? Things we’re so desperate for that our mind simply conjures them up?” It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
She stirs a bit of sugar into her tea with a silver spoon. Her wrinkled cheeks lift ever so slightly. “When our dear Mark died, I would go into his room, into the nursery. I’d wait until Joseph was asleep, but then I’d tiptoe down the hall. That room was always warm, even in the dead of winter. I’d stand over his empty crib and ask God why. Why did he take our precious boy from us? Some nights I’d just sit in the rocker, clutching his baby blankets, and cry. Sometimes I would hear him crying too.”
I bite my lip and nod. I don’t need to imagine that scene. I’ve lived it. I stopped going into Shelby’s room after the first few weeks. I couldn’t do it anymore. Her presence was still too real. Too absent. Neither of us could bring ourselves to pack up that room. Eventually, a year later, with Beth and John’s help, we did. “Did it help? Going in there?”
“It allowed me to let go.” Clarice pulls a red shawl around her shoulders and smiles. “Everyone grieves in their own way, Savannah. That was mine. But Joe . . . I don’t know how he grieved. He shut down completely. And all I could do was hold on and wait.”
“How long? How do you hold on when there’s nothing left to hold on to?” Frankly, I don’t know that I have the right to ask for things to be resolved. I’ve made too many mistakes, and I can’t go back and change the past.
“How much faith do you have, Savannah?”
“You’ve asked me that before.”
She places an arthritic hand on top of her Bible and nods. “That’s what I asked my Joe too. He rejected my faith, you see. His own. Told me to stop praying for him because it wouldn’t do any good. God wasn’t listening. God didn’t care about us. About him. Oh, he was so angry.” Her sigh fills the kitchen with memories that could be mine.
“Kevin stopped coming to church with me about three years ago,” I tell her. “He walked into our bedroom one Saturday night and said he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go on pretending he still believed in a loving God when all he could see was Shelby in a casket. ‘What’s loving about that?’ he asked. ‘What kind of God takes children from their parents?’ And I couldn’t answer him.” The heaviness burrows deep again. There isn’t any point in fighting it. Sooner or later it will win.
“Savannah.” Clarice’s tone is surprisingly sharp, and I jerk my head up and meet her eyes. But they’re not angry. They glow with tears of compassion, years of wisdom, and they shine with truth. “The moment you stop trusting is the moment you give up. Do you want to give up?”
I rest my head in my hands and close my eyes.
Do I want to give up?
I thought I did. Six years ago I was ready to give it all up. Ready to be done with the pain, the heartache, and the ever-present shroud of darkness that covered me day in and day out. But for whatever reason, Kevin came home from work early that day.
If he hadn’t . . .
“Some days I still do.” It’s the truth. “Some days I don’t know why I’m still here.”
Clarice sniffs and gives that knowing nod. “You are here, dear girl, because you are loved. And you have much love to give. You simply need to find your way back to believing that.”
“You don’t think God’s given up on me by now?”
“God doesn’t give up, dear. People do.”
Clarice finishes her tea and leaves me alone in her warm kitchen. Maysie’s drawings cover the refrigerator. Everything is neat and tidy and seems to have a place. Small clay pots of fragrant basil, lavender, and thyme line the windowsill above the sink. Old photographs a
nd Thomas Kinkade images hang on light-blue walls. Yellow checked curtains frame the windows that let in the light and keep out the cold. A sudden yearning for my mother tugs at my heart and I am glad she’s coming soon.
In the dim light of the laundry room, things don’t seem so bad. I watch the puppies roll around each other, nipping and making little growly noises. I’d forgotten how fast they grow. Willow pads over to me, flops down, and rests her soft head on my lap, as if to comfort me and remind me of Clarice’s words. “God doesn’t give up. People do.”
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there thinking about that when Brock comes in. He doesn’t say a word. Just sits against the wall opposite me, takes a pup into his lap, and stretches out his legs. After a while he knocks the side of my socked foot with his. “Maysie wants to know if you’ll stay for dinner. I’m making pizza.”
I do love pizza. “I don’t want to impose.” Hope is squirming so I set her down and push my hair behind my ears.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Laughter rumbles in his chest and I glance up. It’s hard to meet his eyes because I don’t like the questions in them. “What did you see out there, Savannah? In the woods? . . . When you walked in the room you were spooked.”
“I’m not sure.” I can’t tell him the truth. But the look on his face tells me I don’t need to. “Do you . . . see things?”
His smile is more than charming. “No. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.” He lines his big feet up against mine and applies a gentle pressure that sends a flagrant flood of feeling through me and sets fire to my face. Thankfully the light is dim in here. “There’s nothing wrong with seeing what you want to see. Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s not, but if God’s in all of this, like Aunt Clarice keeps telling me, then it’s nothing to be afraid of, right?”
“I suppose so.” Does he really understand me? It’s been so long since anybody has. “But I am afraid . . . I’ve been down that road before. Crazy Town is no fun.”
Brock puts the puppy back on the floor and leans forward, his eyes shining into mine. Before I can stop him, he’s reached for my hand. He pushes up the sleeve of my sweater to reveal a story I don’t want to tell.
Where Hope Begins Page 10
