by Lisa Wingate
“Eight.” The word trembled from my mouth with a sudden rush of emotion. “She’s only eight. Her father has never shown any interest, but all of a sudden this summer he’s interested. Coincidentally, he has recently remarried and has a new young wife who’s bored, wants children, but has infertility problems. Mind you, they talk about all of this where Sydney can hear them, so she tells me about it on e-mail or during our weekly phone calls. That’s bad enough, but the real truth is that Geoff never wanted any children, and I doubt he wants any now. He’s just using my daughter to distract Whitney from pursuing it. Faced with the idea of going through invitro, or exercising his joint custody of Sydney, it’s much easier for him to take Sydney. I’m afraid that my little girl will end up hurt and disappointed.”
Jocelyn nodded with the empathic-but-detached mask of an accomplished therapist. “Well, that is a hard thing to predict, isn’t it? Do you feel that Sydney is in any danger—physically, I mean? At risk of abuse, anything like that?”
My eyes widened, and I jerked back against the seat. “Well, no. Of course not. I wouldn’t have sent her if I did. I would have found some way not to.”
Jocelyn nodded thoughtfully. “In the past, did Sydney ever display any evidence that she had issues with her father not being an active participant in her life?”
“Yes. Definitely,” I answered, the vessels in my heart twisting, shrinking, wringing out blood and leaving behind an old, hollow ache. “She’s been sending notes to him ever since she learned to write. Last year she started keeping a picture of him taped to her dresser mirror. She’s been obsessed with the idea of meeting her father.”
Jocelyn nodded again. “Would you say that is a natural longing on her part?”
I slouched in my seat, feeling strangely exposed. “Well … yes, of course.”
“But you’re afraid that she will come out of it disappointed—that her father won’t be everything she had hoped for?”
“Exactly,” I replied. That was it exactly.
In the mirror, her eyes cast a thoughtful reflection, a deep green like a pool of water in a grassy field. “Would you say that most people are disappointed in their parents in some way? That often a parent is not all we could have hoped for, in some capacity or another?”
“Well, of course. I think most people have some of those feelings toward their parents.” I thought of my own father, an old-school military man, obsessed with his career, often gone on duty for months at a time, suffering from battle scars we couldn’t see, wounded in a way that prevented him from reaching out to us. He was a face behind a newspaper. I never knew him well, but of all four kids, I knew I was his favorite, and that was enough for me. I thought of my mother, who waited patiently but never pushed, who held the family together and tended the home, who forbade us to complain about Dad. Who swept the issues of our youth under the rug, neat and tidy. Of course most people had issues with their parents. Parents, I’d learned since becoming one, were imperfect people, feeling their way through the uncharted wilderness of their children’s lives.
“In my experience, some parental resentment is a common life theme,” Jocelyn summed up. “Even given whatever issues you had with your own parents, would you have chosen for them not to be there?”
“What?” I stammered, trying to picture growing up without Mom or Dad. As a child, I wasn’t aware of their flaws. I cared only that they were there, that our home was stable and reliable day after day, year after year, a safe place to be, even if we didn’t get mushy-gushy over each other or have big family meetings. We had our routines, our spaces to fill, family dinner out on Friday night, chores on Saturday, and church on Sunday, work and school. A normal life.
“Would you have chosen not to have either of your parents in your life because they could not be perfect for you?” Jocelyn restated as we wound through the grove of trees to the ranch headquarters.
“Of course not,” I replied, shocked by the suggestion that I would ever voluntarily give up one of my parents. My mother’s stroke the year before, losing her, was one of my most painful experiences. “As a kid, I didn’t care if my parents were perfect. I just cared that they were there.”
“Exactly. That is what children care about, for the most part. Most of the time—now I’m not speaking into the realm of situations that include abuse and neglect here—but most of the time, children are better served by a relationship, even an imperfect relationship, with both parents. Give yourself credit for loving your daughter enough to put your own resentments aside and allow her to discover this relationship with her father, whatever it is going to be. Only time and God know the answer to that, so in the meantime, there isn’t much point in second-guessing and worrying, is there?” Parking the truck in front of the ranch house, Jocelyn glanced at me with a wise, empathic expression. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to analyze. Habit.”
I sat there stunned, muttering, “Oh, no … that’s … It’s fine, really… . I …” Suddenly I saw Sydney’s situation in an entirely new way, through the eyes of my daughter, who could accept Geoff for what he was, because he was her father. “Thanks,” I said, but Jocelyn was already getting out of the truck with Collie, the two of them exchanging a private look. I had the feeling, again, that Collie had told her about me ahead of time, perhaps set me up for a little of Dr. Jocelyn’s impromptu analysis.
Maybe that was why she and Laura had concocted this scheme to send me to horse psychology camp. Maybe it had nothing to do with Collie’s writing a magazine article at all. I considered the idea as we said good-bye and departed in separate vehicles, Jocelyn heading toward the therapy camp, Collie toward town, and me to my cabin.
A long, mournful howl broke the afternoon quiet as I passed the barn and the chicken coop. Stopping the car, I glanced at the dog kennel, where Mr. Grits was dividing his time between howling and trying to dig his way to China. He had created a hole large enough that the front half of his body disappeared when he dug, leaving only a woolly white rear with dirt flying out.
“Oh, you bad boy,” I muttered, backing up. I’d have to tie him up or something. In another hour or so he’d have completed his escape tunnel, and would be on the loose again.
As I pulled up to the fence, Mr. Grits came out of the hole, mustache and jowls painted brown. “You are going to dig your way right back into trouble,” I warned, shaking a finger at him, and he turned his face away. “But on the other hand, then you won’t be here if Zach really does decide to take you to Collie’s house… .” Hmmm. Some wicked part of me had an idea. Wouldn’t it be funny to kidnap the dog? Then if Zach decides to go through with playing the adopt-a-dog joke on Collie, he won’t be able to find Mr. Grits. He’ll think the dog escaped.
It was too tempting to resist. I was out of the SUV in a flash, opening the chain on the dog kennel, and ushering Mr. Grits into my car, before even considering the fact that he smelled like a combination of damp garden and goldfish tank. Still, the plan seemed worth it as I chained the gate, slipped into my SUV, and left the headquarters with my hairy, smelly partner in the passenger seat. Mutt and Jeff, together again, on the road to adventure.
A giggle pressed from my throat as I rolled down the window, enjoying the late-afternoon breeze. I found myself checking the rearview mirror, watching the ranch house disappear from sight, thinking, Maybe he’ll come looking for the dog …
Shaking off the idea, I relaxed against the headrest as I drove slowly out of the trees, through the grassland sea beyond, then up the rocky hillside to the place where the roads forked. Following the fork to the river, I took in a deep breath, feeling … good for the first time in weeks. It was hard to imagine now, winding along the hillside with the soft wildflower-scented breeze swirling through the windows, that this morning I had been falling off the edge of a cliff.
I had a newfound faith that things would turn out all right. I had a peace for which there was no explanation, except perhaps the quiet magic of this place with its wispy sage-green grass swaying hypnotic
ally in the dappled shade of the live oaks. There was an incredible silence here. No voices, no car horns, no cell phones ringing or television sets droning. Just the low hum of the engine and the relaxing rumble of tires traveling over the stone and earth.
This was a beautiful place, serene like a scene from an artist’s painting, old and unchanged. It was no wonder that people came here for therapy. The yawning trees and the boulder-strewn hillsides made human problems seem temporary, insignificant, all part of some larger plan as vast as the sun-drenched landscape itself.
We rounded a bend and our destination came into view on the hillside ahead. The cabin was just as I had pictured it, a sturdy one-story limestone structure with a loft window upstairs and a stone fence around the yard. It looked like a lithograph from a turn-of-the-century storybook, nestled beneath the shade of a gigantic oak—the kind of scene in which Goldilocks might show up to steal the three bears’ porridge or Little Red Riding Hood might skip by with her basket of apples. I’d brought the wolf with me. He turned his dirty snout my way, licked his lips, and yawned a smile, as if to show that he liked the cabin.
Parking near the yard gate, I killed the engine. A sigh wound through my body, and I sat there with my fingers dangling on the keys, filled with the strange sense that I was finally someplace where I could close my eyes and rest.
donnaf
EIGHT
DEAR SYDNEY,
SORRY MOMMY DIDN’T ANSWER YOUR E-MAIL LAST NIGHT. DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED? I LAY DOWN TO REST FOR A MINUTE AFTER SUPPER, AND I SLEPT UNTIL MORNING. I WOKE UP A LITTLE WHILE AGO WHEN THE CLOCK ON THE MANTEL (LONG STORY) CHIMED SIX. OUTSIDE, THE LIGHT IS JUST BEGINNING TO TURN GRAY, AND I’M WRITING THIS E-MAIL TO YOU SO THAT WHEN IT’S BRIGHT ENOUGH, I CAN CLIMB TO THE TOP OF THE HILL (ANOTHER LONG STORY) AND SEND IT. YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHERE I’VE ENDED UP AND WHAT I’VE BEEN DOING.
I’LL PLAY OUR LITTLE GAME FIRST, SO YOU’LL KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE THIS MOMENT WHERE I AM, AND IT WILL BE JUST LIKE YOU’RE HERE.
RIGHT NOW, I’M IN A LITTLE STONE HOUSE ON A RANCH NOT FAR FROM WHERE AUNT LAURA LIVES. THE CEILING IS LOW AND COZY, WITH HEAVY TREE-TRUNK TIMBERS TO HOLD IT UP, AND THE WALLS ARE A THICK WHITE PLASTER LIKE THE ONES IN MEXICO. I’M SITTING AT THE TABLE IN THE TINY KITCHEN, NEXT TO A LIVING ROOM WITH A STONE FIREPLACE. THERE’S ALSO A BEDROOM (WHERE I SLEPT LAST NIGHT) DOWNSTAIRS. UPSTAIRS IS A LOFT WITH TWO BEDROOMS AND A LOW, SLOPING CEILING. ONE ROOM HAS PINK QUILTS AND ONE HAS BLUE, ALL SEWN BY HAND SOMETIME LONG, LONG AGO. I IMAGINE THAT THE PIONEER MOM WHO LIVED HERE PIECED THEM TOGETHER FROM FLOUR SACKS (FLOUR USED TO COME IN CLOTH SACKS) AND OLD WORK CLOTHES AND BABY THINGS HER CHILDREN OUTGREW. SHE PROBABLY PULLED THOSE QUILTS UP SNUG UNDER THEIR CHINS, SMOOTHING THEIR HAIR AND KISSING THEIR FOREHEADS. IF ALL THE BUNKS WERE FULL, THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN SEVEN KIDS. IMAGINE THAT! YOU’VE ALWAYS WANTED A BROTHER OR A SISTER, BUT CAN YOU PICTURE HAVING SEVEN!
THE FURNITURE HERE HAS CARVINGS OF FLOWERS AND LEAVES. ON THE BEAM ABOVE THE FRONT DOOR, THE WORDS “ENDE GUT, ALLES GUT” ARE CARVED INTO THE WOOD. I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, BUT I THINK IT’S GERMAN. THE CHAIRS AT THE DINING TABLE HAVE OLD MAN WINTER’S FACE ON THEM. FROM THE LOOKS OF HIM, HE’S BLOWING UP A MEAN SNOWSTORM, BUT I DON’T THINK THERE WILL BE ANY SNOW HERE TODAY. THE BREEZE FEELS COOL NOW, BUT IT’LL BE HOT LATER.
WELL, LOVE, THERE’S ALMOST ENOUGH LIGHT OUTSIDE TO SEE, SO I’M GOING TO GET DRESSED AND CLIMB THE HILL TO SEND THIS. OH, I FORGOT TO TELL YOU WHY I’M HERE. AUNT COLLIE IS DOING A STORY ABOUT SOME DINOSAUR TRACKS THAT WERE STOLEN OUT OF THE RIVERBED, AND I’M HELPING HER. WITH ANY LUCK, WE’LL CATCH THE THIEVES. THEY THINK IT MAY HAVE BEEN AN INSIDE JOB—LIKE ON SCOOBY-DOO, WHEN THE CULPRIT IS ALWAYS SOMEBODY YOU KNOW. I HAVEN’T MET TOO MANY SUSPECTS YET, BUT I DO HAVE A SCOOBY. HE’S GIGANTIC, WITH THICK WHITE HAIR. I RESCUED HIM FROM SOME ORNERY COWBOYS WHO SAID HE WAS CHASING THEIR CATTLE. (BY THE WAY, DON’T GET ANY IDEAS ABOUT KEEPING HIM—HE’S AN OUTSIDE DOG, NOT AN APARTMENT DOG.)
RIGHT NOW HE’S SLEEPING BY THE DOOR, WEARING YOUR PINK BARBIE FLIGGIE IN HIS HAIR. IT LOOKS VERY CUTE ON HIM, AND HE SAYS HE HOPES YOU DON’T MIND. HE ASKED IF I WOULD GRAB THE DIGITAL CAM AND SEND YOU A PICTURE, BECAUSE IT WOULD MAKE YOU LAUGH. IF YOU COULD HAVE SEEN ME CRAMMING HIM IN THE BACK OF THE JEEP YESTERDAY, YOU WOULD HAVE REALLY LAUGHED.
HE SMELLS BAD, BUT HE’S ACTUALLY PRETTY GOOD COMPANY, SO DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. I MISS YOU, BUT I’M DOING JUST FINE. I HAD REAL LIVE GRITS YESTERDAY MORNING FOR BREAKFAST. THEY WEREN’T BAD. I’LL TELL YOU MORE ABOUT THAT IN THE NEXT E-MAIL.
ENJOY YOUR DAY. I LOVE YOU TO THE MOON AND STARS, AND BACK.
MOM
The light outside was finally becoming bright enough to see by as I dressed in khaki shorts, a white tank top, and hiking boots, and tucked the laptop into my backpack. Standing by the door, I glanced at myself in the little antique mirror, noticing that I looked surprisingly rested. My hair had dried in dark waves while I slept, and the dark circles under my eyes had faded. There was a blush in my cheeks and a touch of color in my skin from being out in the sun the day before. I looked like I’d returned to the realm of the living. The hollow-faced woman who’d stared back at me from the rearview the day before was gone.
“Must be the fresh air,” I muttered. On the entry rug, the dog rolled one eye open and thumped his tail against the floor.
“You ready to take a little walk?” I asked, grabbing the rope from the coat hook and slipping it on him.
As I opened the door, and we stepped out side by side, I was glad to have Mr. Grits along. The predawn light was still dim, and the twisted live oaks cast odd shadows in the low-hanging mist. Somewhere nearby, a dove called clear and mournful, and its mate answered from the fog. Mr. Grits squatted on his haunches and howled out a reply as I closed the cabin door. The sound sent goose bumps down my spine, but I pictured Sydney wondering why I hadn’t answered her e-mail last night, and knew I couldn’t wait for the rising sun to burn away the fog.
As we left the porch, the dog bounded playfully ahead, pulling me across the yard. “Whoa there, wait a minute.” Laughing, I braced both feet as he started toward the river. “This way, big guy. Up the hill.” He switched paths with a playful yip, and we were headed up the hill at a trot.
We climbed the narrow trail in record time, Mr. Grits plunging ahead, scrambling over loose rock and tree roots, and me stumbling at the end of the rope like a reluctant mountain climber. The hurried ascent was probably beneficial, because I didn’t have time to think about snakes or other crawly things, or wonder about the rustles in the underbrush. Before I knew it, we’d wound through the trees and emerged from the fog on top of the mountain. Mr. Grits skidded to a halt so fast we collided, and I ended up astraddle him like a kid playing leapfrog. The dog swiped his tongue across my face, and I smelled fish.
“Eeew!” I coughed, pushing him away.
Batting his eyes beneath the pink fliggie, he looked at me soulfully, as if to say that I looked like I needed a kiss. For just an instant, I had the feeling he could see things in me that I didn’t let anyone see. The loneliness. The sense of being lost, drifting with only Sydney as my anchor, and now she was far away.
It’s not much of a life, I heard him say.
“It’s all I’ve got,” I whispered, then realized I was having a moment of insanity in which I thought the dog was talking to me. Worse yet, I was answering.
“All right, Lindsey, I don’t know what that was, but you need to shake it off,” I muttered, following the path into a maze of towering boulders. In my father’s old John Wayne movies, the bad guys would have ambushed the hero there. Ahead, Mr. Grits sniffed the air suspiciously, slowing down.
“Let’s go,” I whispered, anxious to be out in the open, and Mr. Grits picked up the pace.
Beyond the boulders, the path crested the hill, where an old stone bench cast a long morning shadow over a carpet of Indian blanket blossoms beneath a lone live oak.
To the east the sky was afire, and below in the valley, the shadow of t
he jagged hills slowly receded, allowing diaphanous streams of sunlight to breathe life into the silent earth. Nestled among the trees like part of the landscape, the buildings of the ranch headquarters caught the sunlight, the metal roofs reflecting amber tones like embers in a fire. Far off in the pasture, a herd of horses grazed, their sleek coats golden and copper and silver-gray.
In my mind, I pictured them as a herd of wild mustangs, the descendants of noble Spanish horses, roaming free on the dusty green prairie. I imagined the pioneers who’d come to this place when it was wild and new. Strong men and bold women like Caroline, who posed staunchly beside her husband in the portrait on the cabin wall. Had she once stood in this very spot, gazing into the valley? What thoughts did she find here? What did she dream?
Someday we’ll build a fine house there in the valley, she whispered in my mind. The voice was so real, I glanced over my shoulder. There was no one there, except the Caroline from my imagination. Caroline and Jeremiah. Jeremiah, with dark hair and eyes like tarnished silver. In my imagination he smiled at me, and I was Caroline.
Letting my eyelids drift closed, I sat on the bench and allowed the fantasy to sweep me away. The wind touched my cheek, featherlight, and I felt his hand, a strong, sturdy hand, his fingers combing into my hair, gentle, familiar, loving. I leaned into him and whispered, In that big grove of live oaks below. That’s where we’ll build our home.
A hawk shrieked overhead, and I jerked upright, the vision evaporating like a wisp of morning fog. Loneliness stung like a slap, sudden and sharp. For just an instant I’d let myself remember how it felt to be with somebody, to be one half of a whole, rather than a single self-subsisting entity. When was the last time I’d opened myself to that yearning, even for a moment in the unguarded hush of morning? Most days the morning hour was filled with rushing to get dishes into the dishwasher, or clothes folded, trash taken out, lunches packed, homework folder signed, myself off to work, Sydney off to school… .
